From the Sea I Come (Nol faal Okaaz Zu'u Meyz)
by Morninglight
Summary: Rewrite of the Aureliiverse. Irkand is the last of the Blades, now an Alik'r warrior. Tolal is a fisherwoman, rescued as a child from a massacre in Bruma. Their mutual ancestors crossed the sea to kill dragons. Alduin will learn that the blood of the Akaviri, the Bruniikke, still flows strong and that Akatosh will not permit His wayward son to dominate the world as he once had.
1. Ysmir's Breath

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! This story is my new Skyrim head-canon; the Norcs and a few Aurelii will show up as always, but all metaphysical and political head-canon from the Aureliiverse no longer exists. Snowberry extract comes from Frostfall and Tolal's enchanted jewellery comes from Hunterborn, both excellent survival mods. I'm also adding some backstory for why Korir hates the College so much.

…

**Ysmir's Breath**

"The fare to Dawnstar's fifty septims."

Tolal shook her head in disgust and turned away from the carriage driver, who took that as his cue to leave. As the open-air cart rattled away, she looked worriedly at the sky which was darkening to the north with the promise of Ysmir's Breath, the wind that blew from Atmora with the summer snowstorms. Southroners never believed that Dawnstar, Winterhold and Windhelm were cold enough to have odd bouts of snow even in summertime until they saw the Sea of Ghosts for themselves. Then they generally headed back to warmer climes as fast as they could.

Until Ysmir's Breath blew over – which usually took a few days – she was stuck in Winterhold. Eirik had better hope she never found him after the drunken lout sunk her fishing boat, inherited from her adoptive father Dag, on the ice floes between here and the prison island called the Big Chill. Only her insistence on both of them carrying potions made from dried histcarp and ground salmon roe kept them alive long enough to crawl onto an ice floe while his pure Nord blood allowed him to jump into the water and start swimming from floe to floe before she could gather herself.

_"Don't fret about what's in the past because it can't be changed or the future because it hasn't happened yet. Save your worries for the present."_

She smiled sadly at the memory of a proverb her adoptive mother Adelheide would quote whenever Dag or Tolal expressed worry about the future. Practical wisdom from a woman loving enough to accept the orphan he'd brought home from the Great War, even when she hid under the table for a year and had to be coaxed out with snowberries.

_So the present is that I have nothing but the furs on my back, an iron dagger and three wolf pelts from the damned things that tried to eat me on the way up here. If I can sell the pelts, I can scrape together enough coin to stay in the inn during the blizzard, and hope they're charitable enough to let me eat the scraps._

Judging by the wind and the sky, it would be two hours before the storm hit. Tolal looked at the bountiful snowberries and woodpile near the second intact building to the right, which looked like the village store. Winterhold was such a shithole they didn't even rate a blacksmith, which was a shame because leather was always needed by those who worked the forge and Tolal knew how to prepare hides. Hopefully she could gather enough snowberries to brew into extract, chop a few nights' worth of wood and sell the pelts to cover a three-day stay in the town.

After that, she'd have no choice but to leave Winterhold and hope for the best.

An hour of energetic chopping yielded a decent amount of firewood, some random Dunmer watching her work curiously. "What brings you here?" he asked.

"Fishing boat hit the floes and I have little coin," she admitted. "With Ysmir's Breath coming…"

He nodded brusquely. "Fair enough. Dagur might give you a bit of a discount if you're staying during the blizzard, especially if you provide enough firewood for the whole time without someone needing to go outside, but don't count on the Jarl to provide the traditional hospitality. He's a skinflint sour bastard with a grudge against the College."

Tolal snorted as she split another small log. "I'm from Dawnstar and Skald is worse," she replied. "Old bastard upped the taxes on the non-Nords in town – which apparently includes me because I'm mix-blooded."

"Lovely. I'll thank Azura tonight for making Korir tolerable so long as you don't mention the College." The Dumner smirked in his race's dour way. "I'm Malur Seloth, what passes for a steward around here. Mostly because they think I've got some connection to the mages because I'm a dark elf."

"Tolal of Dawnstar," she answered wryly. "Sounds like how Skald thinks I'm not a true Nord because I'm part-Orc."

"Sounds like a right ass," Malur said sympathetically. "I can skim along without doing too much work because Korir's obsessed with reclaiming Winterhold's glory but it sounds like you've got to do twice as much to get half the credit."

She grunted in agreement, pausing in chopping firewood to examine the sky. A half-hour or so before the first edges of the blizzard would hit Winterhold. "Give out the odd bounty and otherwise listen to the Jarl bitch, eh?"

"Something like that." Malur grinned. "Helps I trained at the Bards' College. There's a way of pitching your voice, you see, that convinces people of your sincerity…"

Now Tolal hadn't trained at the Bards' College but she still knew when someone wanted something. "You'll teach it to me in return for a favour," she said dryly.

The dark elf raised an eyebrow but continued to grin. "If you're smart enough to figure that out, then you're smart enough for the favour."

He glanced around as a guard wandered past before speaking in a softer voice. "I'll admit to being a bit lazy but I'd do it myself if I could sneak into old Nelacar's room. He's this old mage who's a bit of an ass and none too welcome at the College, but he has a very nice staff that he never uses. If I have that, people will think I'm a wizard and leave me alone."

Tolal sighed, reading between the lines: "I'm too chicken-shit to steal it so can you do that for me." And all for a non-material reward that might be complete bullshit regardless.

But if she could learn that tone, she might be able to make her life easier. Tolal wasn't quite sure how she'd wound up with Orc eyes and mouth, Nord height and (presumably) Imperial olive-bronze skin, but the Stormcloaks in Dawnstar regarded her suspiciously even though she'd lived there since early childhood. Then there were those who assumed she was an idiot because of her Orcish blood…

"I'll make no promises, but I'll think about it," she finally answered.

"Fair enough. Though Dagur's having words with Nelacar at the moment, so if you can get past them and out again, you'd be able to sit pretty for the rest of the week."

...Bastard _was_ persuasive; Tolal was halfway across the street before she realised what she was doing. Sticking the woodcutter's axe in her belt, she sighed and entered the inn. Might as well have a go at it.

Once inside, she slipped on one of the four totemic rings that Dag had taught her how to carve from the remnants of her kills, a simple bone ring etched with sigils honouring Kyne. It muffled her movements as she dropped to a crouch, feeling self-conscious about sneaking around in heavy furs, and all but crawled into the room that this Nelacar apparently rented on a permanent basis. Malur had been right, as the mage and innkeeper were discussing a messy incident as some woman looked on and interjected with wry comments.

She dropped below the bar in the Altmer's room and grabbed the staff, wondering how in Oblivion she was going to get it outside. _"Live in the task you're doing,"_ her father's voice reminded her.

Someone saw her as she snuck out: Ranmir, the town drunk, who blinked owlishly and returned to his mead with a mutter about 'seeing things'. Miraculously, Tolal escaped to find Malur waiting outside on the bench with a smile.

"Nice job," he said, sounding impressed as she wordlessly handed the staff over to him. "I took the liberty of selling those pelts you had to Birna and the firewood's stacked by the inn door. I might be lazy but I repay my debts."

The Dunmer handed her a small bag of coin. "Judging by experience, the blizzard won't start for an hour or so, which should be plenty of time to teach you my trick."

He spent the next half-hour teaching her how to pitch her voice as he had when asking her to fetch the staff, fat snowflakes beginning to fall as the wind picked up. A burly red-haired man in shabby robes and a copper circlet who had to be Jarl Korir stopped by, eyeing her suspiciously. "You here for the College?"

"No," Tolal responded sincerely. "I'm a fisherwoman whose boat wrecked on the floes up north who came into town to ride out the blizzard."

"Stay clear of the College if you know what's good for you," the Jarl advised as he strode into the Frozen Hearth.

"Arse," Tolal muttered after the door closed, earning a snicker from Malur.

"He's got shit for brains, I'll agree," the Dunmer admitted cheerfully. "Thank Azura, or I'd have to find a real job."

Tolal laughed at that. Malur was a lazy shit but he didn't put on airs and paid his debts. She'd take what she could get. "I'd better see if Dagur will let me loll around as you do for a few days," she told the mer. "Thanks for… not being an ass, I guess. Rare thing for me these days."

"You're smarter than you look," Malur replied as he rose to his feet. "Pity you won't stay in Winterhold; intelligent conversation that's not in mage robes is hard to come by around here."

They parted ways and Tolal entered the inn again, this time with a large load of firewood. Dagur looked up from the bar as the woman bustled over to take it. "Looking to ride out Ysmir's Breath?" she asked softly.

"Yeah. My fishing boat's wrecked and I have what's in my purse plus a few snowberries to my name," she answered wryly.

"Damn." The woman sighed. "Well, we won't turn anyone out into a blizzard and the firewood's a big help, so if you can live with bread soup, water and whatever's left from our plates and tankards at the end of the day, it won't cost you a thing."

Tolal poured out the coins from the small bag Malur had given her into her hand; twenty septims, the equivalent of as many days' wages for the average unskilled labourer. If Eirik hadn't gotten drunk and wrecked her boat, they could have dragged in that big bastard horker she'd brought down with arrows and enough fish to cover the stay in style. _So help me, if I get my hands on the bastard…_

"I throw these in and get to eat what you eat, not the leftovers," she haggled, trying to put that earnest tone into her voice as Malur had.

The woman glanced to Dagur, who'd come around from behind the bar. "You'll have the choice of breakfast and dinner or mid-meal and dinner," the innkeeper bargained. "Want more than that, you'll need to head outside and chop wood, but if you do that once a day while Ysmir's Breath blows, I'll throw in a bottle of mead for you."

"You drive a hard bargain," Tolal sighed as she handed over her entire life's savings.

Dagur grimaced in embarrassment, taking the coin, as his wife gave the man a flat stare. "Instead of extorting a woman who's lost everything, maybe you should try and get some damned money out of Ranmir!"

"Ranmir's heartbroken after Isabella abandoning him," Dagur answered softly. "The lady here will leave once the blizzard's done."

"A debt is a debt," the innkeeper's wife retorted.

Tolal sensed an opportunity. "If I can talk him into paying up a bit, would you make it three meals?" she asked softly.

"Of course," the wife said eagerly before Dagur could respond.

Tolal pulled off her gloves and cracked her knuckles. "Hopefully he'll be reasonable enough to listen. Otherwise I'll be saving him a few days' coin by knocking him flat."

Ranmir wasn't reasonable and so Tolal settled the debt in the time-old Nordic tradition of punching him in the face and gut until he agreed to pay up. His sister, who apparently ran the store, sighed and promised that the next shipment of cheese from the south would be free.

She felt a bit guilty, having heard their conversation as she stumbled into town, and when Haran (the innkeeper's wife) came over with a flagon of mead as thanks, Tolal handed it to a stunned Ranmir. "I know what it's like to have had hard times," she told him softly before turning away.

"The act of a true Nord," Jarl Korir said approvingly.

"That's a phrase I don't hear often," Tolal said dryly as she accepted another flagon of mead delivered by a slightly exasperated Haran while Dagur cut off strips from the wolf roasting on the spit over the fire. She'd hated leaving the skinned carcasses of the wolves for scavengers but hadn't dared burden herself with extra meat she couldn't cook. Wolf was a lean meat but tasty enough when served with snowberry sauce.

"Skald's an idiot," Korir said flatly. "Man's only Thane is a damned Imperial. You might be half-Orc from the looks of it but at least you've got Nord in you too."

"I'm from Bruma – or so my adopted father told me," Tolal confessed. "Near as he could figure out, my parents were killed with a whole lot of other people in the Great Chapel of Talos when the Thalmor came. When the Nord Legions swung through on the way back to Skyrim, he found me hidden in the ruins."

"Bruma Nord," the Jarl said decisively. "At least you were rescued by a true son of the snow and raised in Skyrim."

Tolal had never wanted to kill someone who'd complimented her more. Skald was a racist arse but at least Dawnstar was big enough she could avoid him most of the time. Korir commanded about fifty people, two-thirds of which were guards and/or Stormcloaks, but he had the ego of a Jarl from one of the Five Great Holds.

"Damned witch-elves. The College is crawling with them," Korir continued. "My father fought and died against the pointy-eared demon-lovers from Alinor but the College welcomes them. I wish they'd fallen into the sea when the Great Collapse happened."

Nelacar, who'd been reading something in the corner, snorted derisively. "Most of the Altmer population in Winterhold are refugees from the Thalmor," he told the Jarl in the weary tone of one who's repeated himself a dozen times. "The first country the Dominion conquered was their own."

"Dagur, get the Jarl home before the blizzard gets too bad," Haran muttered to her husband.

"Haran, I'll freeze to death out there," the man protested, equally as quietly, as the Jarl helped himself to a bottle of Alto wine.

Tolal sighed. "I'll walk him home," she said aloud. Given she was stranded here for the next few days, she might as well make herself useful and stay on the good side of the innkeepers. Plus, her furs were pretty thick.

The expression of sheer gratitude on their faces told her she'd done the right thing. "My Jarl?" she told Korir. "The blizzard is getting bad. I'll escort you home so you don't get lost in the snow."

"You're a true Nord," the man mumbled as he rose to his feet.

Outside, the world was covered in a thick veil of white, the wind biting to the bone. There wasn't a guard to be seen but even the purest of Nords with blood stretching back to Atmora would be outside. Not during Ysmir's Breath.

She recalled the layout of the village and pretty much walked forward until she hit the wall of the Jarl's Longhouse, guiding the semi-drunk Korir until she found a door. Opening it up, Tolal all but shoved him inside, planning to apologise later. That wind was no joke and she wanted to be inside and sleeping.

Then the sharp sound of ice cracking and a flicker of cold blue scales on the wind made her swear. _Ice wraiths._

It was commonly accepted in the north of Skyrim that ice wraiths were the unquiet souls of the winter-dead, unlucky people who froze to death in the snow, and that they sought out others to join them in their lonely exile. That was why every Nord had to kill one, returning them to Kyne to be reborn, to become an adult: becoming one of the winter-dead was a Nord's greatest fear. Tolal was a woman seven times over, her forearms bearing the blue-white scars of fighting the damned things.

Judging by the looks of it, she'd be adding three to her tally… or joining them. The wind was getting stronger and the snow thicker by the moment.

While it was true that the Nords had a fear of mages because of the mer affinity for it, they were a pragmatic race and there were charms and blessings that dated back to the time of Ysgramor and Atmora. Some of the bone-carving that Tolal did, her four enchanted rings and a few appropriate amulets, came from that era. Not as powerful as something that was metal enchanted with a soul gem, but often enough to give a hunter the edge they needed over their prey.

Tolal had enough warning to pull off her silent ring and don the one which enhanced her physical attacks just before the ice wraiths were upon her. Drawing her woodcutter's axe, she called fire to her other hand, grateful no one could see her. She had no problem with mages – the court wizard in Dawnstar was a good woman, even for a Breton – but she didn't need Korir thinking she was off to join the College.

Then it was a flurry of frost-edged teeth, contrails of ice, semi-dull iron and fire pouring from her hand as magicka bled out of her body faster than she liked. Tolal took out one with well-placed fire but the other two fell back until the flames died. They closed in simultaneously and she knew that short of a miracle from Kyne, Shor or Talos, she wouldn't be going to Sovngarde.

Reluctantly, Tolal fell back, allowing the ice wraiths to herd her as she hoped for her magicka to recover. She was quickly turned about because of the thick snowfall but continued to retreat, hoping she'd hit a wall or something.

Eventually the wind turned positively vicious, Ysmir Shouting from Atmora to remind the Nords of who they were. Or maybe he screamed in grief for Torygg, the chosen King, killed in an unfair duel by Ulfric Stormcloak. Tolal didn't know and didn't care as she was more interested in outlasting the ice wraiths or hopefully being able to get inside.

Finally she hit something cold and hard – probably the edge of the bridge over the chasm between Winterhold and the College. With the stone to her back and sides, Tolal steadied herself and prepared to fight for her life.

Screaming with a cold fury to match Ysmir's Breath, she unleashed the Battle-Cry, gift of Kyne to the Nords. The ice wraiths quailed back in momentary fear and she launched herself at them, sweeping her Flames spell across the pair so that yellow-ochre light blazed around their icy serpentine forms to provide a target for her axe.

Their teeth scored through the thinner fur wrappings over her forearms, drawing blood she could ill-afford to lose, but the bites grew weaker as the flames danced. Finally with a burst of magicka and adrenaline, she took both of them out, watching their bodies collapse into icy piles of crystal and fangs.

She didn't feel cold anymore. In fact, she was getting toasty. Tolal sighed sleepily and surrendered to the inevitable, letting the snow cover her like a warm blanket of feathers.


	2. Black Wings Unfurled

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Irkand is way too badass to go quietly to the block, so mayhem!

…

**Black Wings Unfurled**

Even though Skyrim's name referred to the mountains that encircled the northern kingdom, Irkand preferred to translate it as 'shithole more trouble than it's worth'. Especially when he was knocked unconscious by an overenthusiastic Legionnaire and woken up to see himself on a creaky wagon with his hands tied and in company with a number of tall, hairy Nords in blue linen and chainmail. The bonds were easy enough to deal with: while no battlemage, life as an Alik'r warrior had taught him how to call fire through any point of his body, allowing him to weaken the leather just enough so that one good hard jerk of his wrists would break them. Escaping from the wagon when he was boxed in by a big golden-blond Nord to the front and a vaguely familiar brownish-blond one in finer chainmail than his friends to the right was more awkward. _That_ one regarded him with the same sort of bitter disappointment generally reserved for running into someone you owed and not really being able to pay the debt.

"I'm going to die at the hands of men who wear shorter skirts than the ladies of the night in Sentinel," the Ra Gada observed with a weary sigh. "My ancestors must be beside themselves in disgust."

"Shut up back there!" yelled an irate Legionnaire driving the cart.

"Or what, you'll execute me?" Irkand retorted scornfully. Whether he went to the Far Shores of the Ra Gada or the Blades' Heaven's Reach Temple, he'd spend eternity never living this down, so he might as well put in a few good verbal digs on the way.

The big blond man was grinning while his seatmate, a skinny-looking man with the hollow eyes of the serially unsuccessful thief, whimpered at the thought of execution. "Damn you Stormcloaks! Before you came along, Skyrim was nice and quiet. I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell," he whined.

"You wouldn't have gotten past the border," Irkand noted dryly. "The Thalmor sit on that thing to make sure Talos worshippers don't escape. Though you might have gotten lucky because a few Alik'r arrows might have accidentally crossed the border and killed the agents there that week."

The blond Nord burst out laughing. "If you go to Sovngarde, Redguard, I'll stand you a mead!" he promised. "I am Ralof of Riverwood."

"Irkand of the Alik'r," the Lhotunic answered with a slight nod of his head. "Your friend, the one sitting next to me, looks vaguely familiar but I can't place him."

The gagged man made a startled grunt as Ralof sighed, handsome face flashing with bitterness. "We travel in the presence of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, the rightful High King," he said grimly.

Irkand concealed his gape of surprise by mimicking a bored yawn. _Now_ he recalled the Tongue three Blades and a troop of Nord Legionnaires had been dispatched to rescue from Falinesti during the Great War. Ulfric was older and more scarred, his sea-green eyes glinting like the shards of a shattered gem: sharp and hard but still in pieces. Pieces that had nevertheless pierced the Empire deep.

"We fought together in the Great War," the Redguard admitted softly. "If I die today, at least I'll die with a battle-brother."

Ulfric grunted again, the sound a complicated mixture of grief, sorrow and pride. It was amazing how Nords could convey relatively complex emotional states with monosyllables, but he supposed it was what happened when their language was limited in contrast to Ra Gada or Akaviri.

"And the Empire betrayed both our countries," Ralof said bitterly as they trundled towards some small border town. "It's strange: Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel safe as a lad."

"I know the feeling," Irkand agreed with a sigh.

"Where you from, horse thief?" Ralof asked of the skinny man beside him.

"Rorikstead. Why do you care?"

"A man's last thoughts should be of home."

Irkand sighed, drawing on a memory of the thick white walls of the Alik'r compound where the elite trained under his exacting eye but it morphed into the austere stone monastery called Cloud Ruler Temple. At least when his head rolled off here, the ways of the Blades would continue in the Alik'r, the warriors named for the fierce desert of Hammerfell bedevilling the damned Thalmor until humanity could regain its own.

"Helgen. Used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod still makes that mead with juniper berries in it." Ralof sighed, the question obviously rhetorical, as they rolled beneath a gate.

_Poor bastard,_ Irkand thought sympathetically as they passed a stocky Colovian man sitting on a fine bay gelding talking to a painfully familiar Altmer woman on a black horse.

"General Tullius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damned elves likely have something to do with this," Ralof observed flatly.

"Her name is Elenwen and she's probably here to make sure both Ulfric and I are dead," Irkand responded with a little bitterness colouring his voice. "If Tu'whacca is kind, I'll get to spit in her face."

_I'm a dead man anyway. If I can die taking her out, my ancestors will forgive my embarrassing demise._

Unfortunately, the gods were not kind; Elenwen took one glance at his face, blanched a pasty yellow and turned her horse around with a hasty farewell for Tullius. Irkand's scornful laughter followed her swift exit from Helgen even as he mourned the loss of the best chance to avenge his family.

Ulfric growled in bitter amusement. The Thalmor feared even a bound Irkand, former Third Blade – executioner – of the Blades, former servants of the Septim Emperors.

"I might have stabbed her in the chest once," Irkand admitted with a regretful sigh. "Only my guts hanging out fit to serve as belt-loops stopped me from finishing her off."

"Damn," Ralof said with feeling as the cart stopped. "When we get to Sovngarde, you must tell me the story."

"Not to be offensive, Ralof, but if I wind up in Sovngarde it means I shamed my ancestors to no end," Irkand told him. "I might just need that mead you promised me if _that_ happens."

Ralof roared with laughter before they were chivvied out of the cart at sword-point.

_I rather hope I wind up in the Far Shores. I couldn't bear Rustem's mockery at being captured by Legion amateurs should I make it to Heaven's Reach,_ Irkand thought ruefully. Much to his wry bemusement, the executioner was a Redguard like him.

A soft-voiced, plain-faced Nord Legionnaire read out their names, sounding a bit regretful at calling out Ralof's. "Empire loves their damned lists," the golden-haired Stormcloak noted with a sigh before raising his voice. "Hey Hadvar, you earn enough to make up for selling your honour?"

"Unlike you, Ralof, some Nords have kept their oaths of allegiance to the Empire," Hadvar responded sadly.

Ralof spat on him before being dragged to the line forming before the headman's block.

"Lokir of Rorikstead." For some reason, the horse thief decided to try and run, earning himself a couple arrows in the back and no trip to Sovngarde.

"Captain, this one's not on the list," Hadvar said to the Imperial woman – whose skin indicated a hefty dose of Ra Gada blood – as Irkand was shuffled to the front of the queue.

"He is now," Tullius said from his spot near the block. "That's Irkand Aurelius, one of the greatest traitors in the Empire."

"That's rich coming from the chief lackey of the man who allowed the Thalmor to slaughter their merry way through Bruma and Cloud Ruler Temple," Irkand retorted sardonically. "Oh, and fed Hammerfell to the Dominion. How does it feel to know the Ra Gada did on their own what it took the united provinces – no offence, Stormcloaks – to do: throw the fucking goldskins out?"

"Your head will adorn a pike on the walls of the Imperial City next to Ulfric's," Tullius promised, left cheek twitching at Irkand's taunt. "Give them their last rites, Priestess."

One of the Nords, more desirous of Sovngarde (or at least the boasting rights therein), interrupted the priestess' pontificating sermon and marched to the block. When he asked the Redguard executioner if his ancestors were smiling on him, Irkand observed sarcastically, "No, they're not," as the axe swung down. For his troubles, he was next on the list.

Irkand allowed himself to be marched up until he was in reach of the Imperial Captain, who then promptly discovered why being within close range of an Alik'r warrior was generally problematic by the Redguard snapping his bonds and grabbing her _just_ in time as a human shield against the arrows which were automatically launched his way. He then pulled her sword from its sheath as he lowered her twitching soon-to-be corpse and dove out of the way, avoiding the last arrow of a slow Legionnaire. Activating the Red Surge, the gift of the gods that allowed a Ra Gada warrior to move faster and regain their breath quicker for a short while, he rolled and rose to his feet to do the same to General Tullius. Apparently the archers were a mite fonder of their commanding officer – or crucifixion for killing a superior wasn't their thing – because they stopped with confused expressions.

Bad idea: Ulfric used his bound wrists to drag down the gag covering his mouth and Shouted at them sharply, scattering the trio like hens before a hungry fox. "You're going to allow me, the Stormcloaks and the Redguard to leave or your General will have his neck snapped," the man announced calmly in that resonant baritone.

_I seem to recall doing something similar in Falinesti,_ the Redguard thought wryly as he planted his feet against a struggling Tullius. _Here's to hoping the Imperials aren't as ruthless as the Thalmor in killing their own._

Eyes swung to Hadvar, who apparently ranked everyone here. "The Legion doesn't negotiate with traitors," the soft-voiced Nord retorted.

"Just like Falinesti, eh?" Irkand asked Ulfric.

"I wouldn't know. I was semi-conscious from the Thalmor's Extensive Manual Uncoiling," the Nord answered with a sardonic grin, falling back to back with the Redguard. "Could you at least snap Tullius' neck before the archers kill us?"

"Oh, but of course. Rustem would never let me live it down otherwise."

A massive monster, its black wings unfurling, landed on the tower and proceeded to ruin Irkand and Ulfric's plans for an honourable death. Tullius managed to get free, screaming at the Legionnaires to get the townsfolk to safety, as the… dragon… Shouted. The world turned into a hell of fire and brimstone.

"Run!" Ulfric screamed. Irkand never thought he'd live to see the day a Nord showed some common sense.

Once in the tower, the duo exchanged glances as Ralof pulled an iron dagger from his boot and started cutting bonds. "I don't want to be offensive, Ulfric, but killing Torygg and Shouting might just have brought Alduin back," Irkand told him mildly.

"Perhaps," the Jarl of Windhelm admitted tersely. "Now how about we get out of here and discuss it later? Maybe we'll be lucky and the Dragonborn will be here to put the bastard down."

"Maybe we'll be luckier and he'll choke on Tullius," Irkand countered sardonically. Then they started running upstairs, only to come face-to-face with the World-Eater. For some reason, Irkand and Ulfric both found reasons to run downstairs again until the jet of fire that turned some poor Stormcloak into a fried snack ended.

_Akatosh, if You love me, please don't make Ulfric the Dragonborn. While I appreciate the karmic justice of it, we really don't need Tiber Septim the Second…_

They grabbed weapons once inside the Keep, joined by Ralof, and killed any Legionnaire stupid enough to get in the way. Plus four giant spiders whose venom was ice-cold and a bear that Ralof shot dead with a single arrow and insisted on skinning. Nords were strange people.

Once outside, they crouched behind a boulder as Alduin flew away, roaring a challenge to Skyrim. "Maybe I'll get lucky and he'll burn down Whiterun," Ulfric muttered sardonically.

"We need to warn Riverwood," Ralof said grimly. "And perhaps if a Stormcloak carries warning, Jarl Balgruuf will grow a spine."

"The Jarl of Whiterun has plenty of spine. He just expects to be fellated first and the Imperials are better at that than I am."

"Yes, I'm sure Nurancar gave them plenty of practice." Irkand rolled his shoulders, feeling uncomfortable in his rags. "I'll come with you to Riverwood and then go onto Whiterun. There are Alik'r there and until Alduin actually eats me, I'll continue my current mission."

_Besides, Kematu is wandering around without direct supervision._ Irkand was a Lhotunic – a moderate – by dint of being the Redguard son of a Forebear woman who married an Imperial man, so he had little time or patience for the Crown put in charge of the warband dispatched after the traitors Nazir and his sister Iman. But politics was politics and if the former Blade was lousy at anything, it was politics.

"You're always welcome in Windhelm," Ulfric promised as he clasped Irkand's forearm. "Besides, you owe Ralof – and me, by the way – how you stabbed that Thalmor bitch."

"I can tell you on the way. It was five years after the Great War had ended and I managed to get her location from a Bosmer defector…"

Telling the story kept his mind from thinking of the implications of Alduin's return. He hoped one of the Blades survived because there was no way he was fit to guide the Dragonborn through the prophecy crap…


	3. The Accidental Apprentice

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I've settled on Lia/Tolal's enchanted ring actually being the Jewel of the Rumare from Elder Scrolls: Oblivion, which the Hero of Kvatch can get by hunting slaughterfish for someone. It has Athletics enhancements and Waterbreathing. I'm also expanding the Nord and Orcish affinity for smithing to include making anything with their hands. I also recommend the Immersive College of Winterhold mod at Nexus as it is amazing.

…

**The Accidental Apprentice**

Tolal was swathed in softness and warmth. Beneath her was something like clouds and heavy but smooth fabric covered her; if she was staying at the Frozen Hearth, it should be furs thrown over a straw-stuffed mattress. And if she were in Sovngarde, she'd be awakening amidst the mists on soft green grass.

A cool hand touched her forehead, startling her into full awareness with eyes popping open like a shucked clam. A woman's face, slightly older and covered with a thatch of greying brown hair, peered down at her critically. "Malnutrition, overwork, constant exposure to the elements and your forearms shredded by those ice wraiths. How in Oblivion did you get to the front door during a killer blizzard?"

The fisherwoman responded intelligently with, "Huh?"

"Not enough to eat, too much work in poor weather and those ice wraiths did a number on you," the woman translated, much to Tolal's relief. Her face was lined with querulous discontent but her dark eyes looked kind. Judging by the rosy hue to her skin and generally brownish colouring, she was Breton, which meant that she came from the Mages' College. Had Tolal literally fought her way across a bridge over a chasm in a blizzard?

"Thanks," the part-Orc told the mage gratefully. "I was expecting to wake up in Sovngarde, if at all."

"Unlike _some_ of my colleagues, who shall remain nameless for the sake of my and their dignity, _I_ consider Restoration to be a perfectly valid school of magic," was the mage's answer as she helped Tolal to sit up in the bed. "And you're welcome. I had to keep Sergius Turrianus from helping himself to your rings; he was calling them some of the finest examples of Atmoran and late Third Age Nibenese enchantments he'd ever seen."

Tolal glanced down at her hands in surprise. The bone rings were easily carved and imbued with a breath of Kyne or Hircine's power through prayer but the golden ring on her left thumb, the only thing she had from her life before Dag saved her, was something she'd only part with in death. "I'll teach him how to carve the bone rings," she offered. "They're easily replaced. But the gold ring is an heirloom."

The healer raised an eyebrow. "You call something that had Sergius practically drooling 'easily replaced'? The man's _obsessed_ with ancient means of enchantment. Though I guess you being a Norc _would_ give you a knack for making enchanted items whereas Sergius had to work at it."

It wasn't the first time Tolal had been called a Norc by people, usually those from Whiterun or Windhelm who passed by the stronghold that throttled trade on the road east if they weren't treated with respect. But the people of Half-Moon Hold were a culture unto themselves, a group of Orc and Nord mix-bloods who bred true and dared to be powerful in the face of the Stormcloaks, openly worship both Malacath and Talos in the face of the Empire, and not give a damn what the rest of Skyrim thought. _She_ was a part-Orc human raised by pureblood Nords though and had no desire to ever travel to Half-Moon Hold.

"I'm not a Norc," Tolal answered calmly. "And my father taught me how to make the charms. Your friend, if he's planning to make and sell 'em, won't have much luck because most hunters worth their salt know how to make them already and you really can't disenchant them, or so Madena the Dawnstar court wizard said."

The healer actually snickered, leading Tolal to believe there was some rivalry between her and this Sergius. "He'll be disappointed. The man thinks that if we dispense enough enchanted items, the Nords will magically love us."

Refraining from commenting on that, Tolal looked around the room she was in curiously. It was about half the size of the average cottage back in Dawnstar and furnished with rich, slightly worn furniture. Through the open door shone a column of light the colour of ice in shadow at dusk, providing illumination and the equivalent warmth of a bonfire without needing fuel. Or maybe it did. Maybe it needed the soul of a forsaken child or something.

The healer followed her gaze and smiled slightly. "A combination of spell and enchantment," she explained. "Someone casts Magelight and a variation of Flames on an enchanted stone base and the spell lasts for a week."

"I could have used one of those when fishing," Tolal said enviously.

"I do wish the Nords were a bit more open to magic," the healer confessed as another door, sounding heavier and made of metal, opened and closed nearby. "Especially with the damned Thalmor-"

"Colette, please don't gossip where there's a chance Ancano can overhear you," ordered the slim, dignified Breton woman in finely woven mage robes who appeared in the doorway. "Even if you're right."

Younger in appearance than Colette, she carried herself with a quiet confidence that reminded Tolal of Madena, a court wizard always willing to help the people of Dawnstar. The fisherwoman had always been happy to deliver clams to her in return for minor healing. But somehow she got the feeling this woman would demand more than clams for her aid, yet whatever help that was delivered would be given unstintingly, while Madena always held back a little for herself.

"Certainly, Master Wizard Ervine," Colette answered, sounding a little sour. "The woman's far healthier than she should be with her level of malnutrition and overwork, the frostbite and rockjoint were easily cured, and her wits are more or less present."

The Master Wizard grimaced at Colette's lack of tact. "Thank you, Colette. I believe it's your time to present a lecture in the Hall of Elements?"

"No one ever listens to me," the healer grumbled. But she nodded to the others and exited the room, leaving Tolal alone with Ervine.

The Breton took the chair by the small table next to the bed, regarding the part-Orc steadily. "I am Mirabelle Ervine, the Master Wizard of the College," she introduced herself as. "Arch-Mage Savos Aren is often busy with his duties, so I handle the day to day business."

"I am Tolal of Dawnstar," she replied, rubbing the back of her neck.

"Yes, the fisherwoman whose boat sunk to the north." Mirabelle's expression was coolly calm. "Krauldar, the last of Winterhold's noblemen and the only person of rank who'll treat with us, told me what he knew of you when I went over to discover who you were."

"Thank you for saving my life," Tolal said, unsure of what else to say.

"You're welcome." Mirabelle regarded her keenly. "You don't have to worry about paying us back if that's what is bothering you. Colette was able to use you as an example of the various uses of advanced Restoration for our apprentices."

"I figured I'd put together a bone axe and kill a horker or two for you as a thanks," the fisherwoman answered. "If you salt the meat properly, it'll last all winter."

Mirabelle smiled thinly. "Alteration and Restoration allow us to keep supplies preserved and we're able to get food delivered via magic, but thank you for the offer."

_I'll drop off a couple horkers in Winterhold then,_ Tolal thought with a sigh. She was stuck here, even if the blizzard was over, until she had enough coin to return to Dawnstar. She wasn't comfortable walking from Winterhold to the port town, not with all the wolves and other beasties wandering around.

The Master Wizard leaned back in her seat, expression thoughtful. "You were using magic against the ice wraiths on the bridge, which triggered the courtyard gate. Technically, you passed the requirements to become an Apprentice of the College."

Tolal blinked slowly. "Me. An Apprentice."

Mirabelle quirked her lips a little sardonically. "_Technically_. You're welcome to stay as we've beds to spare and it seems you have a knack for enchantment. But if you share the common distrust of magic, you're certainly welcome to leave."

"Given that it's saved my life, I've got no problem with magic," Tolal retorted, her voice edged with frost at the implications of Mirabelle's statement. "But you're scholars and… I'm not."

"Illiterate?" At Tolal's blank expression, Mirabelle sighed and said, "You can't read?"

"I can read a little," Tolal admitted.

The Master Wizard nodded. "If that's your sole objection that can be easily remedied. To be honest, we could use more Apprentices, especially from the… ah… common run. Onmund, our only current Nord student, comes from a wealthy family in Solitude who were devastated by his decision to study magic. J'zargo the Khajiit apprentice is here to learn magic for his own ends but his grandfather controls the caravans that run in Skyrim. And Brelyna Maryon is the heir to significant House Telvanni holdings in Morrowind. Throw in the mer preference for magic and the Nords having little time for anything that requires time and effort to master, and you can understand why the College is alienated from Skyrim, a poor thing in this time of troubles."

It was obvious that Mirabelle herself came from an important family like most mages, as she had no idea how arrogant her words were. No wonder the College and Jarl Korir had trouble with each other; both were arrogant upper-class gits.

"Can I look around before making a decision?" Tolal asked in response, the politest thing she could manage. If the rest of the College mages were like Mirabelle, she could always leave and return to hunting.

_Could rebuild one of those ruined cottages and work out of Winterhold. At least the Jarl respects me, sort of._

"That's a reasonable request," Mirabelle approved with one of her cool smiles. She rose to her feet and opened the wardrobe to reveal a few sets of mage robes and fine boots. "Feel free to grab some clothing. Yours couldn't be salvaged."

Tolal's jaw set stubbornly. Some leather strips and a wolf pelt would have mended the damage to her furs easily enough. But she remained silent and donned plain robes of blue-grey with a brown-grey mantle and hood, a pair of fine black boots trimmed with fur going on her feet. She combed out her long black hair and tied it back with a thong.

"You look more presentable than I expected," Mirabelle observed surprisedly.

Hunting horkers for the rest of her life looked very, very tempting.

The Master Wizard gave her a quick tour of the Hall of Attainment, where Apprentices and Journeymen lived, before leading her out into the courtyard – and a blindingly clear day that was almost warm – and pointing to various places like the greenhouse, the Hall of Countenance – where the senior mages lived – and the statue of Shalidor, the wizard who supposedly founded the College. Then she led her inside the Hall of Elements and pointed to the doors which led to the Arcaneum, which was apparently the library, and the Arch-Mage's Quarters. An old Nord, still spry despite his white hair, was lecturing three people in similar robes to Tolal's on wards in the Hall of the Elements as various mages worked on everything from conjuring spirit wolves and atronachs to turning invisible around them.

"Master Tolfdir is the greatest authority on Alteration amongst humanity," Mirabelle said quietly as they neared. "He's been teaching at the College for nearly five decades."

Four pairs of eyes swung her way and Tolal met each of them squarely. Judging by the looks of it, the Apprentices were young, though Brelyna was probably older than the part-Orc's three or so decades. "Welcome to the College," greeted Master Tolfdir, his gaze bright with excitement. "I was just about to start the lecture on magical precautions."

"Most of us know how to cast spells," Brelyna the Dunmer pointed out wearily.

"Well, any idiot can learn Flames and Healing," J'zargo retorted scornfully. "When are we going to learn real magic?"

"Feel free to participate in the lesson and we can talk after," Mirabelle murmured to Tolal before turning to exit the Hall of the Elements.

"Any idiot can throw a fireball, J'zargo," Tolfdir countered with a quirk of the lips. "But it takes something else to be able to cast a ward."

"We've only been here for a few weeks," insisted Onmund, a bulky brown-haired pureblood who looked almost pathetically glad to have Tolal here. "You don't know what we can do!"

"Would our newest student care to add something?" Tolfdir asked, addressing the part-Orc directly.

"I can cast a weak ward," she confessed. "Sometimes necromancers or vampires think a lone fisherwoman would make for a great thrall."

"Then go over there and you can demonstrate." Tolfdir's hand became wreathed in yellow-ochre flame as Tolal hurried to the designed spot, casting the ward spell with both hands and hoping it wouldn't be broken. Being saved from freezing to death only to be cooked instead was a bit too rich for her liking.

Tolfdir flung a fireball at her, the ward cancelling it but shattering beneath the energy. Tolal put up the ward again and he tossed lightning at her, which had a similar effect to the fireball. The third time she cast the ward, it was with one hand as she was quickly running out of magicka, and he responded with a blast of frosty air which shattered _that_ spell too.

Exhausted, Tolal fell to her knees as magicka rushed into her compared to the last time she'd cast a spell; maybe the robes were enchanted or something. She didn't know cloth could be enchanted, but she really didn't know that much about magic, obviously.

"Wards will break under any form of magical attack but if you can get them up in time – and time your counterattacks – you'll be able to block almost any Destruction spell," Tolfdir lectured.

"There's usually a recoil when a magic attack or ward gets broken," Tolal added, breathing harshly. "That's a good time to smack 'em in the face with a rock or pick a better place to stand your ground."

The other Apprentices snickered but Tolfdir was nodding thoughtfully. "She's right. Any competent mage will at least know something of hand-to-hand combat or have the wisdom to fall back if a swordsman is coming their way. Physical attacks are an excellent method of disrupting magic."

He looked to them. "Onmund, you are the weakest defensively. J'zargo, you are the most skilled offensive _and_ defensive mage but you need to learn spells that will defuse a situation, not escalate. Brelyna, none can fault your abilities in Conjuration and Alteration but you need to broaden out into more subtle spells that will reduce your reliance on atronachs. Most buildings in Skyrim aren't fireproof, you know, and few Nords accept atronachs in the village square."

The Apprentices shuffled their feet like scolded children as Tolfdir turned his attention to Tolal, who'd now risen to her feet again. "Your reaction time was admirable but you overcharged the spell every time. One hand is generally enough against most mage enemies."

Tolal shrugged. "Most of the mage-bandits I dealt with ran out of magicka quick and resorted to weapons. If I was fighting a Dunmer or Altmer and they didn't see me coming, I'd put arrows into them, and I tend to fight ice wraiths with fire in one hand and an axe in the other."

"All perfectly valid tactics," Tolfdir assured her. "Even the Imperial battlemages – and I was one – learned how to use the gladius and bow."

"But if you can conjure an atronach, it can take care of ranged enemies for you," Brelyna pointed out to Tolal. "And it's fairly easy to get jewellery which will boost your magicka regeneration. That, more than anything which boosts your magical energy pool, is the most crucial thing in a mage-duel."

"Indeed, Brelyna," Tolfdir said approvingly. "I trust you will teach – oh dear, I didn't get your name."

"Tolal of Dawnstar," the fisherwoman answered softly, astonished at how everyone simply accepted her and expected her to remain in the College.

"A lovely name – Dragonish, if I'm not mistaken, though Urag gro-Shub would know more than me." Tolfdir smiled at her. "At the College, we share knowledge freely amongst ourselves. As you've taught yourself Lesser Ward, I want you to teach Brelyna and Onmund that spell. In return, Brelyna will teach you how to summon Flame Atronachs and Onmund can teach… hmm… I know from your… ah… arrival here you know how to cast Flames. Do you know any other Destruction spells?"

"I can cast that last one you used. It keeps fish fresh on the boat," Tolal promptly replied.

"Then Onmund can teach you Sparks, an excellent choice against magical enemies," Tolfdir decided. "I hear you have extensive knowledge of Atmoran bone charms?"

"I just know how to make a few small hunter's charms to Kyne and Hircine," Tolal said awkwardly.

Tolfdir's eyes were wise. "There is no such thing as a small magic, Tolal. And I am truly sad to say that practitioners of the Clever Craft, the native Nord magics, are few and far between. I _was_ going to ask you to teach J'zargo how to make them in return for learning Magelight, but I suspect that it's as much a religious practice as it is a practical one, so I'll need to think of something else."

Tolal shrugged again. "I'll teach everyone who wants to learn. But they will need to learn to hunt first. To make the charms, you need to hunt down, kill and butcher the prey yourself."

"I'd love to learn!" Onmund said eagerly. "My father keeps on saying that no true Nord practices magic. I didn't even know of the Clever Craft until I came here and it was mostly academic until you came along."

"J'zargo knows how to hunt," the Khajiit mage assured her. "He knows that he is the greatest apprentice but competition makes things more fun, so he shall teach you a few spells."

"You're too kind," Tolal retorted dryly.

"The Clever Craft sounds a lot like the Skaal-magic of Solstheim," Brelyna observed softly. For a Dunmer noble, she seemed pretty shy. "Well, from what Master Neloth tells us."

"Perhaps there is a connection. The Skaal practice magics believed lost to mainland Nords." Tolfdir stroked his beard and glanced at Tolal. "From the sounds of it, you have more life experience than our other Apprentices. How old are you?"

"Somewhere between thirty-three and thirty-five," Tolal told him grimly. "My foster father found me in Bruma after the Thalmor came through."

"Don't let that bastard Ancano know that," advised Onmund, voice harsh but quiet. "He wants to bring Justicars here."

"Which the Arch-Mage won't stand for," Tolfdir said reassuringly, though his eyes glittered with anger. "But… watch what you say around him, my dear. We can protect you at the College but there's a lot of Thalmor outside."

Tolal's fists clenched as she met the elder mage's eyes. "And there are a lot of places to dump them in the Sea of Ghosts. Sometimes Justicars from Northwatch Keep wander too far in search of victims to fill their torture quota."

The old Nord battlemage actually smiled, a cold expression that might have suited a statue of Talos. "It's good to know you can defend yourself. Still, be careful."

"Tolal?" Mirabelle's aristocratic voice cut into the conversation and everyone turned to face the Master Wizard. "I assume this conversation means you'll be staying."

The part-Orc woman looked at the others. They'd probably figured out she wasn't worth much by now but not one of them had mentioned her Orcish features, a rarity in her life. They wanted to learn her little magics, the ones Dag had passed to her and received from his own father, and would teach her magic in return. It was assumed by them she would stay and share her knowledge with the College.

"…Yes," she said slowly.

"Then welcome to the College, Apprentice Tolal."


	4. A Face from the Past

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing!

…

**A Face from the Past**

"If you have Alto wine, I will take you to the Temple of Mara and wed you."

Orgnar grunted, unimpressed by the Redguard's fervent plea. "If you're gonna do that, I don't have Alto wine."

"I just saw a fucking dragon. And not just a dragon, _the_ dragon. So I need wine. Now."

Delphine, in the middle of cleaning her dai-katana downstairs in her hidden cellar room, froze when she heard the word 'dragon'. Since finding the first empty dragon mound near Riften two weeks ago, she'd been dreading the rumour – yet yearning for it all the same, because it was the promise of a purpose greater than an empty endless war.

Sheathing her sword in its cane-sheath, a relic which dated back to the Akaviri invasion and was a gift from Arius Aurelius, she climbed upstairs and locked the doors firmly. It could even be a Thalmor spy looking to draw out Blades – rumour had it Alik'r were tracking down two in Whiterun. Paranoia was a survival trait in the wake of Cloud Ruler's fall.

"Try the magic word," Orgnar retorted, making Delphine sigh. She didn't have many social graces but the Nord had even less.

"Pretty please, oh mighty Jarl of the beer keg, can I have a bottle of Alto wine that looks like the ones on the fucking bar?" the Redguard begged snidely, his oiled-silk tones vaguely familiar. He wore rough homespun tunic and breeches about two sizes too big for him, his iron-grey hair – straight as a Colovian's – cut in the classic close-cropped Imperial style.

Delphine choked back a laugh. It was inappropriate but damned if she didn't need some humour at the moment.

"You got gold?"

The Redguard dumped a small bag of coins on the bar. "Enough, my lord?"

The barkeep counted them out, grunting sourly. "It'll do."

"Thank the gods." Heavy shoulders shifted, muscles writing beneath the undyed homespun, as he reached over for a bottle of Alto and uncorked it, letting it breathe like a true connoisseur of wine.

"Orgnar!" Delphine raised her voice. "The ale's gone bad."

"Uh huh." He continued to wipe down the bench.

"Didn't you hear me? I said the ale's gone bad. We need to get a new batch."

"Hard not to, Delphine. I'm sure Indaryn heard you in Riften and is readying our next order now."

The Redguard choked as Delphine retorted, "I guess you don't have potatoes stuffed in your ears after all."

"Nice inn," he said as he turned around, revealing a round Redguard face with carved Imperial features, older but no less hard than she recalled. Those deep brown eyes were the same, though his skin had darkened to a dark red-brown.

"If you think this place is nice, I'd hate to see where you've been staying," Delphine responded, trying to process the fact that Irkand Aurelius, the former Third Blade, was in her common room speaking of dragons. She'd been lovers with the man's older brother Rustem but still remembered how utterly competent and deadly he'd been.

"My last stop was Helgen," he answered softly. "It was attacked by a dragon."

_Not just any dragon, but _the_ dragon. Alduin World-Eater himself._

"We need to talk," Delphine told him, taking a chance. "Follow me."

Irkand picked up his wine, helped himself to a wedge of goat's cheese and followed her into the bedroom. Once the door was shut, Delphine locked it, and then unlocked the hidden door.

"A concealed room. How Breton of you."

Had Irkand always been this sarcastic or was it a talent developed after the fall of the Blades?

Once they were in the secret room, the door locked against intruders, Delphine folded her arms and stared at her fellow Blade. "It's good to see you alive, Irkand," she told the man sincerely.

"And you, Delphine." Something desperate and hungry swam in that gaze for a moment before it was buried in Akaviri blankness. "I'm not a Blade anymore – but I am glad someone survived Cloud Ruler."

"I got Esbern out," she confessed, not wanting to argue with him over his status as a Blade. Judging by the accent he'd picked up, the man had moved to Hammerfell, which would explain the Alik'r's sudden rise in competence. "The bastards hit the Great Chapel first. Sigdrifa and your niece were there. Then they got Cloud Ruler, where Rustem and your father were. Worst of all-"

"Someone betrayed Pale Pass and the Aurelii. I know." Irkand's expression twisted with grief. "I buried the bodies."

A harsh sound erupted from Delphine and she found herself swept up in an embrace. For a few precious moments they wept together, mourning the loss of friends and family anew. She didn't even know Irkand could cry.

"I don't know if anyone's alive. I lost track of Esbern after he fled Winterhold with the Thalmor on his heels and didn't dare contact anyone else," she admitted softly.

Irkand nodded sadly. "Some of the Hammerfell Blades joined the Alik'r," he replied. "We've taught them our skills."

She turned away from him to rummage in a chest. "I managed to save your father's tanto."

"I'm Alik'r now," Irkand told her wearily. "I have a mission that needs to be completed – now more than ever with the dragons returning."

"I know. Your friends are all over the places hauling up Redguard women." Delphine couldn't help the edge in her voice this time. The end of the world was near and he was chasing traitors?

"Kematu's a fucking incompetent, even by Crown standards," Irkand said in exasperated anger. He'd embraced his Redguard roots, it seemed, down to the politics. "But these two betrayed Taneth to the Thalmor. And guess who showed up in Helgen to make sure I'd die on the Legion's headsman's block?"

"Elenwen." Delphine all but spat the name.

"Indeed. Though she took one look at me and galloped out of Helgen." Irkand chuckled mirthlessly. "I did manage to take Tullius hostage and Ulfric removed his gag. If not for that damned black bastard, we could have ended the Civil War right then and there."

"They captured Ulfric?"

"Indeed." Irkand shook his head with a sigh. "I need to deal with Iman of House Suda first and then find her brother Nazir. That's an intelligence leak which needs to be sealed."

Delphine couldn't argue with that. "Just be careful. Your friends managed to piss the Jarl's men off."

"Oh, lovely." Irkand rolled his eyes. "Someone needs to tell this Jarl Balgruuf anyway what's going on."

"I've already set things in motion," Delphine responded smugly. "One bandit raid and a stolen golden claw to delay access to Bleak Falls Barrow – Esbern once told me the place has a dragon burial site map there, so I settled here to watch over it – until the College of Winterhold can send down a random apprentice to collect the thing and deliver it to Farengar Secret-Fire, the Whiterun court wizard and the last known pupil of Esbern. While that's going on, I'll head over to Ustengrav and get the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller; you know how the Greybeards are – predictable – and this will deliver the Dragonborn to me eventually."

Irkand's eyes narrowed. "You know this was coming?"

"I saw the first open burial mound near Riften two weeks ago, Irkand. I contacted my old Thieves' Guild friends and worked from there."

"And everyone thought you were Second Blade because you were sleeping with Rustem." Irkand shook his head in awe. "If we had you in Hammerfell, we'd be knocking on the gates of Alinor with catapults by now."

Delphine was torn between slapping him for the first sentence and embracing him for the second. Things were awkward on the Council after Sigdrifa, Rustem's wife, had all but formally separated from the man when their daughter was a year old. The Breton warrior had _earned_ her place on the Council as the Blades' general and Daedra's advocate before she fell into bed with Rustem. Perhaps Irkand, who'd been raised to be Rustem's left-hand man, remained silent on the issue out of respect for his brother.

"I need your help when you're done with these traitors," Delphine admitted. "We don't know who the Dragonborn is, for instance. Not yet."

"I sincerely pray it isn't Ulfric," Irkand observed grimly. "Delphine, I know the Blades revered Talos, and I recognise him as a deity. But the Ra Gada will never again be part of an Empire unless we're in charge – and if Ulfric was Dragonborn, he would not be sated until every Altmer was dead and Tamriel under his heel."

"I… can't argue with that. Sometimes I think I only worship Talos because so many of our people died from the White-Gold Concordat." Delphine's mouth twisted wryly. "The elves have had an empire, the Imperials had one and the Nords had a third – why not let the Redguards have a turn at the Ruby Throne?"

"If you're strong enough to hold something, you've earned it fairly," Irkand said fiercely. "I only hope to see Alinor burned for what they did to Cloud Ruler and Hammerfell. I'll leave the imperial ambitions to others."

Irkand had never been ambitious. Rustem, on the other hand… Delphine sighed, shaking her head. "You're welcome to stay here," she told the Redguard. "It's… good to see you again."

"Thank you. I'm going to need it until I can find Iman and deliver her to Kematu to make up for getting captured by Tullius." Irkand grimaced in distaste. "I have enough connections to avoid getting executed for failure, but that Crown bastard will give my friends a hard time back in Hammerfell."

"If I run into an obnoxious Redguard named Kematu, I'll kill him for you," Delphine promised cheerfully.

"Have I ever told you I love you, Delphine?"

She laughed and led him from her hidden cellar. Delphine didn't know where he found his sense of humour but damn if she didn't appreciate it.

…

"Khajiit has wares if you have coin."

Irkand sat down before Ri'saad, meeting the elder's wise eyes with a crooked smirk. "Redguard has coin if you have alcohol."

"No alcohol, just a little moon sugar and skooma," the former Fifth Blade admitted cheerfully. "As amusing as it would be to watch you on a sugar rush, this one fears he cannot indulge himself in such petty pleasures."

"I'm sorry I missed you in Windhelm," Irkand said with a sigh, accepting the herbal tea delivered by Atahba, a sugar-tooth gifted with visions from Azurah. "I ran into Tullius."

"This one knows."

"Delphine's alive." Irkand prided himself on the evenness of his voice. The Second Blade had been the one thing of his brother's he'd coveted. But training, both from the Blades and the Alik'r, stilled his tongue except for that one stupid confession back in Riverwood she'd thankfully laughed off as a joke.

"This one knows. You love her still."

"I hate you."

Ri'saad regarded Irkand serenely. The Khajiit kept the Blades traditions alive – albeit with an Elseweyr slant – and had obviously come to Skyrim to prepare for the return of the dragons. "You hate yourself. And perhaps your brother a little. But not this one."

Damned cat was perceptive as always. "Any news on Iman of House Suda?"

"A woman matching her description lives within Whiterun but one of your brothers has been captured by the city guard for attacking her." Ri'saad smirked sardonically. "This one does not wish to be offensive, Irkand, but if you trained these ones, they are very bad at their job."

"They're Crowns." Irkand rolled his eyes and sighed. "Any other little rumours I need to hear about before I head inside?"

"Akhari has an interesting one from Dawnstar."

He knew that tone of voice. He wasn't going to fall for it-

"Tell me."

_You know every rumour is a wild goose chase,_ he reminded himself. At least half of them had been planted by Thalmor to draw him out. And every time it worked.

Every corpse in the Great Temple of Talos had been identified by the Fourth Haafinger Legion and given proper burials. Irkand had visited the memorial wall and rubbed an etching for his sister-in-law's kin in Skyrim, but found no mention of Aurelia Minor, daughter of Rustem and Sigdrifa Stormsword. No one spoke of a child's unidentified body but there were repeated rumours of Nord Legionnaires carrying away surviving Bruma Nord children from the ruins.

'Lia had been visibly mer-blooded even as a toddler. But it didn't mean that even the most racist Nord, seething with hatred for the elves, would leave a little girl to die.

"Not Half-Moon Hold?" He could believe the Norcs found their chief's niece and raised her as one of their own.

"If your niece was in Half-Moon Hold, she'd be wed to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater by now," Ri'saad noted sardonically. "Hrafn's daughters are all Orc-dominant. She wasn't."

Irkand grunted, not seeing the point. The Norcs were practically breeding true these days or so rumour had it.

"Only a Nord can inherit a Jarl's throne," Ri'saad explained wearily. "Now, do you want the rumour or not?"

"Don't make me turn you into mittens, Khajiit."

Ri'saad hissed amusedly. "Akhari dealt with her personally. Traded a good deal of horker meat in return for a rather nice hunting bow, in fact. Bronze-skinned woman with a lantern jaw, visible under-bite and the cutest pair of under-fangs ever seen outside the fairest of races – her words, not this one's. The eyes were large and mer-like, with very little sclera, coloured a deep blue-green like Sigdrifa's but with a tinge of gold from the Aurelii blood. On her thumb rests the Jewel of the Rumare, inherited from the Northstar."

Irkand shuddered in something too deep and profound to be called relief. "She is certain?"

"Akhari told this one her name is Tolal, a fisherwoman raised by a Nord Legionnaire named Dag who brought her home from Bruma as a child because his wife was barren."

"I am in your debt, old friend." Tolal was no Nord or Orc name. He wondered what it meant.

_But my niece is alive and was raised by people who loved her. I wonder if I can find the time to visit Dawnstar and just _see_ her, just know that she's happy and whole. _Irkand wouldn't drag her into the Alik'r and Blades mess; he sincerely prayed that dragons left the northern port-town alone.

"Pssh. We are friends and there is no debt between us." Ri'saad sipped from his cup of tea. "Akhari has traded with her several times. Apparently she holds no disdain for Khajiit."

Irkand smiled a little sadly. "Or maybe she remembers Akhari in the back of her mind."

"Perhaps." Ri'saad shrugged and finished his tea. "Will you go to Dawnstar?"

"If it is permitted by that bastard Kematu." Irkand sighed and finished his tea. "It's enough to know she's alright for the moment. I'll not see her dragged into… everything."

"Will you tell the Foe-Reaper?"

Irkand snorted. "He'll kidnap her for his dynastic ambitions. I respect the man, but we know he's dying for a seat on the Nords' Moot."

Ri'saad echoed the snort. "She fishes on the Sea of Ghosts, Irkand. Hunts horkers on her own or with perhaps a temporary hire. Akhari told this one she practices the old Nord hunting magics. The Foe-Reaper would not dare anger Kyne and Hircine, even for his ambition."

That… was true. Irkand kept on thinking in terms of Hammerfell politics where an heiress like… Tolal… would be a valuable prize. The Norcs did their best to avoid blaspheming Aedra and Daedra alike because of their relatively precarious place in Skyrim.

"Sigdrifa would be proud," he said dryly.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Ri'saad shrugged once more. "You should get inside because the gates are locked at sunset."

Irkand nodded, standing up. He knew a dismissal when he heard one. And since Delphine had outfitted him with new clothing and weaponry, he could blend in better than his Alik'r brothers and take his time approaching Iman.

"Be careful. Once word about Helgen gets out, the Imperials are going to be looking for me and any associates I have," Irkand warned. "I may have embarrassed Tullius and scared Elenwen."

Ri'saad snorted. "Elenwen will huddle behind high gates and higher walls. And if you get captured _again_ by the Imperials, even your mother will not talk to you in the afterlife."

Irkand scowled at the Khajiit before striding off towards the gates. He was _never_ going to live his capture down.


	5. In the Halls of the Dead

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I use proper Latin for surnames, hence Camilla being Valeria and her brother Lucan remaining Valerius.

…

**In the Halls of the Dead**

The line between adventurer and hunter/fisherwoman had always been blurred for Tolal. Sometimes she guided people along the Sea of Ghosts' shoreline and other times she'd guided them to Arkay's embrace. One memorable occasion she'd snuck into Yngvild and found the source of the missing itinerant women from Dawnstar; putting an arrow in that warped necromancer bastard had been one of her happier moments. But there was something about Saarthal that raised her hackles and made her question the wisdom of the College's excavations there.

J'zargo had mocked her decision to bring along her bow and arrows until Tolfdir turned around and told him to shut it. The old man looked both excited and perturbed to be within the city-tomb, its draugr likely to be displeased at being disturbed. It had taken all Five Hundred Companions to lay the dead to rest, legend told.

Because as a fisherwoman she'd been used to finding minute details in poor light, she'd been assigned to find pieces of enchanted jewellery and deliver them to Arniel Gane, a Journeyman obsessed with the Dwemer and their disappearance. Things had been going on swimmingly until she found a bone amulet, enchanted in a similar manner to the ones she carved but with runes of sealing and warning, and found herself trapped.

Tolfdir hurried over with a worried expression and after examining the amulet, he suggested casting a spell on the slab from which it came. Tolal obeyed and it crumbled like dust, a rush of foul air scented with more than the dry dust stench of draugr escaping. Something told her that they'd just made a massive mistake.

She dropped the rings she'd found – plain and silver – to Arniel for analysis before following Tolfdir deeper into the ruins of Saarthal. When she reached a particular room, the atmosphere shifted as the colours leeched from the world, freezing Tolfdir into place with a mildly concerned expression on his withered face.

"Hold, mage. Know that you have unleashed a greater danger than you realise. As you had no way of knowing, judgement has not been passed. But know the Psijic Order will be watching you."

The masculine voice was hollow, like a ghost's, and haughty with an Altmer's accent. A tall, lean figure in white and maroon robes appeared before her, the sole colour in this half-twilight, and regarded her with shrewd eyes.

"Do you have a name or do I call you 'Creepy Apparition'?" Tolal challenged, wiping her damp palms on her thighs.

Amusement curved those thin Altmer lips. "I am Ritemaster Nerien."

"Tolal of Dawnstar. Nice to meet you."

The Altmer inclined his head. "And you, Tolal, though I wish it were in better circumstances. You've set in motion events that cannot be stopped but if anyone has the strength, I think it will be you."

"Thanks… I think. Can you give me details?"

Nerien shook his head, regret written clear on that Altmer face. "I would if I could, but there are too many variables. Already the Eye begins to warp the magicka fields around… wherever you are."

"Saarthal, a hop, skip and a jump away from the College of Winterhold."

"Thank you. I only knew that someone had opened a door best left shut." Nerien inclined his head. "I wish you the best of luck, Tolal. The fate of the world might very well lie in your hands."

And then he faded, the world returning to its normal ebb and flow. Tolfdir shook himself like a wet dog and said, "What was that?"

"Someone called Ritemaster Nerien from the Psijic Order. Apparently we've disturbed something called the Eye. Oh, and he thinks the fate of the world lies in my hands."

Tolfdir's eyebrows shot up. "If any of the other apprentices told me that, Tolal, I'd believe they were trying to feed me a line of horker dung. But you have no idea who the Psijic Order are, so… I must take it as truth. Be honoured – the Order only contacts those who they believe are worthy."

The Alteration Master squared his shoulders. "We might as well press deeper and see what we've riled up."

…

The Eye turned out to be a massive orb that radiated energy, glowing blue lines spelling out a script that Tolal felt she should know but couldn't quite define. There was also a very nasty draugr guarding it, necessitating Tolfdir casting a spell on it that weakened its defences but left Tolal fighting the damn thing all by herself. By the time she'd done peppering it with arrows and firebolts, it looked like a flaming thicket and smelt liked burned bone.

Of course, while Tolfdir secured the Eye, Tolal was sent to tell Arch-Mage Savos about it. On the way, Faralda warned her that Ancano was looking for her to question about their find; as if Tolal needed _more_ reason to be paranoid. But she thanked the Destruction Master and gatekeeper for her warning and made her way up to the Arch-Mage's Quarters.

It was… luxurious. Tolal couldn't comprehend the magical amenities that Savos kept for himself and the quarters that the apprentices used were fit for a Jarl in her opinion. If the Jarls knew about these sorts of things – like running hot water piped through enchanted metal and stone – they'd be clamouring for mages and enchanters and all sorts of magical things.

Savos was at his desk and looked up when Tolal entered. "We've found something huge at Saarthal," she reported grimly. "Oh, and the Psijic Order contacted me."

He listened attentively to her report, taking notes on a piece of parchment, and sighed when she was done. "This is all we need with the news from Helgen," the Arch-Mage finally said wearily. "You're Tollie, yes? The fishwife who stumbled into the College during an icestorm?"

"Tolal," the apprentice corrected, her voice rougher than usual. What did he do all day that kept him so busy he couldn't keep track of all four apprentices?

"Ah, yes, my apologies." Savos sighed again. "I've had three court mages begging me for advice on how to deal with the news from Helgen. And now the Psijic Order has broken its century-long seclusion to contact not me or the senior faculty but our newest accidental apprentice. If the two aren't connected, then I'm an Altmer dancing girl."

She shrugged helplessly. "What happened at Helgen?"

Savos' thin lips tightened. "Reportedly a dragon destroyed the town just as Ulfric Stormcloak was to be executed."

_"…Black wings unfurled…"_ For a moment Tolal recalled a weary, kindly old man's voice murmuring something to her but then the memory was lost. But everyone in Skyrim knew dragons would come back some day.

"The World-Eater," she told the Arch-Mage. "Everyone in Skyrim knows that one day he'll come back to try and destroy the world."

"That's… not pleasant news." Unlike some Dunmer she'd dealt with, he didn't mock her for following Nord superstition. "But… it fits with what our College has been asked to research. We've been asked to delve into Bleak Falls Barrow in the south of Skyrim, a known centre for Dragon Cult activities, and recover a stone tablet reputedly containing the map of every dragon burial north of the Jerall Mountains."

"And because I have survival skills, you're going to ask me to find it," Tolal answered. She should be panicking about the return of dragons but in her lifetime, she'd learned that there was nothing to be done about disasters other than weather them.

"Actually, because of your affinity for Atmoran enchantment, I'd been planning to send you," Savos corrected mildly. "You, in theory, know what to look for whereas the other apprentices might overlook vital clues."

Tolal nodded grimly. She couldn't fault that; the faculty were making a big deal over her hunting charms when the Clever Craft, as Tolfdir called it, wasn't as lost as the mages thought. "I'm not familiar with south of Whiterun," she told him. "Never had reason to go there beyond once."

"It's located above a hamlet called Riverwood." Savos sketched a rough map for her. "When you find it, deliver it to Farengar Secret-Fire, the Jarl of Whiterun's court mage. He's always been fascinated by the Dragon Wars and so we've assigned him the job of translating it."

Tolal nodded, relieved to be escaping the College for a bit. She liked it more than she expected, but the varying attitudes of the faculty were beginning to irritate her. And she needed to breathe some fresh air and reassure herself that she was still… her.

"Thank you. Here, this might be useful." He reached over and handed her a staff with a softly glowing tip. "It casts Magelight."

Tolal had the feeling she'd be smacking people over the head with it more. She much preferred the simpler Candlelight spell, truth be told, or even just relying on her charm which gave her improved vision in the dark. But she accepted it with a smile, resolving to sell it as soon as possible.

Savos nodded in clear dismissal and returned to his correspondence. Lacking anything to do, Tolal decided to have a meal and an early night. She'd have a long trip in the morning.

…

Tolal was going to kill J'zargo. And then resurrect his corpse and feed it to the horkers. Those scrolls were not supposed to explode like that!

But she'd survived and even returned a golden claw to its owner in Riverwood. The cash reward wasn't bad, letting her indulge in a hot meal, bottle of Honningbrew mead and a bed at the local inn, but the two eligible bachelors of the town kept on trying to enlist her into helping one of them win the sole single woman of marriageable age through trickery. Finally sick of the pair of them, Tolal had taken Camilla Valeria aside and shown her the letters each one had written, purporting to be from the other.

The resulting explosion had livened up the evening, if nothing else.

"Fancy robes. You a wizard or somethin'?" noted the village blacksmith.

"Something like that," Tolal admitted with a sigh. She needed to go on a long hunt and fashion herself some furs again. Robes were no protection in a fight.

His companion, a quiet-voiced, plain-faced pureblood, eyed her thoughtfully. "The Legion's always looking for competent battlemages," he suggested.

"No," Tolal told him tersely. "I'm an apprentice and my specialty is enchanting."

"So Stormcloak racism doesn't bother you?" the obvious Legionnaire countered.

"I was orphaned at Bruma in the Thalmor purges," Tolal growled at the man. "And the Emperor let it happen to save his arse. Ulfric's lot are racist shits at times but they generally leave you alone if you say you believe in Talos."

"Do you believe in Talos or are you saying it to be left alone?" asked a golden-blond pureblood from the corner.

"I follow the Old Ways: Kyne and Shor," she retorted. "Warrior-widow and protector of men. Talos is just another name for Ysmir, the Avatar of Shor."

"Some would argue that Talos and Ysmir are two separate entities," noted a resonant baritone from the shadows of the darkest corner in the tavern. "But… you are right and you are wrong. Ysmir is a title, borne by Dragonborn since the days of Wulfharth, and Talos was the last to bear it."

"The White-Gold Concordat made even this conversation illegal," the Legionnaire said grimly. "Please don't put me in the position of having to report it to my superiors."

"If you would tell the goldskins of a friendly conversation in the tavern, you've sold more of your honour that I thought, Hadvar," countered the golden-haired pureblood.

"I am trying to keep you alive, Ralof!" barked the Legionnaire.

Tolal snorted in disgust. "And this is why neither side has won the civil war: the Empire sells out its own people for the greater good and the Stormcloaks have their heads up their arses about Talos when Morrowind, Hammerfell and parts of High Rock would cheerfully help them put the Thalmor in the ground. Not to mention the exiles and refugees from the Aldmeri Dominion who'd love to see the bastards dead so they can get their homes back."

Faralda and Nelacar had been emphatic on that point. Brelyna, as one of the major heirs of House Telvanni, had explained in detail why the Dunmer loathed the Altmer and would never work with them.

"The Foe-Reaper gave a similar reason for his neutrality; I should have expected one of his kin to share it." The baritone sighed.

"I'm not a Norc," Tolal growled.

"... My apologies. The Foe-Reaper would never have let one of his Nord-dominant kinswomen study at the College."

_The Foe-Reaper sounds like an ass,_ Tolal thought as she peered through the gloom at the source of the voice. She mostly got a sense of shoulder-length hair, glittering eyes and fine chainmail.

Growling in frustration, she stood up and stalked towards the room she'd paid for. She avoided politics like the plague and had bigger things to worry about. Like dragons. Or an Eye that might destroy the world. Or something like that.

…

Ulfric watched the Norc woman leave with a hunter's economic grace that belied her mage robes. Judging by her honest frustration, she was completely unaware of her Norc heritage, no doubt a blessing with such an overbearing patriarch as the Foe-Reaper trying to beg, buy and barter his way to a Jarl's seat on the Moot.

He remained silent as the common room emptied out, Delphine emerging from her hidden room below, clad in leather armour with Irkand at her side. "Stay low for a day or so until I come back," the Blade advised her Redguard compatriot. "That mess in Whiterun…"

"Iman was a traitor and will die a traitor's death in Hammerfell," the Alik'r warrior responded grimly. "I only need to find that bastard Nazir and I can go home."

"I'm not disagreeing with you. Only that Balgruuf takes a dim view of 'meddling' in his city," the Breton pointed out.

"Well, I had neither the gold nor the ability to deep-throat the man, so I had to improvise." Ulfric burst out laughing at Irkand's bland sarcasm. It seemed Balgruuf had made a poor impression on the former Blade.

"And _you_…" Delphine turned around to face Ulfric, looking annoyed. "Don't needle the guests. That apprentice might just be carrying the item which could save us all from the dragons."

"The Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow?" Ulfric leaned back in his seat, rubbing his bearded chin.

"Indeed." Delphine sighed and shook her head. "I don't have an army of soldiers at my command, Ulfric. I have to rely on intermediaries because of the Thalmor find me, we're screwed."

"You're the one insisting on complex plans, Delphine-"

"Because Elenwen expects the Blades to pop out of the woodwork at the first hint of dragons," Irkand interrupted. "She tortured enough of our loremasters – my father included – to know the signs of the Prophecy."

"And you are interfering with the Greybeards' ways," Ulfric pointed out, nodding in acknowledgement of Irkand's point. "I can't say as I disagree. Arngeir needs to focus less on the sky and more down here."

"We need to be certain the Thalmor haven't set up the conditions," Delphine told him bluntly. "Ulfric, you were primed to kill Torygg and bleed out the Empire through civil war."

The Jarl of Windhelm bowed his head. He had endured a long, painful talk with the two Blades on how the Thalmor conditioned their 'assets'. One Fury spell, a few pointed comments and Torygg was dead.

"But I am not wrong." He had to believe that or throw himself off the bridge in Windhelm in despair.

"No, you aren't." Delphine's expression was sympathetic. "Elenwen wants this war to go on for decades. If you can make it a fight for the people in Skyrim who aren't Nords, you'd ruin her century."

Ralof, wisely, remained silent. Ulfric had noted the Riverwood man's surprising intelligence but it seemed the golden-blond warrior had the rare quality of knowing when to shut up and listen. He could use a new agent, one who could be trusted with critical missions; if Ralof continued to prove himself, he might very well have one on his hands.

"Perhaps with Alduin's return, I'll have a little time to consider what you've said, if Tullius has the wit to consolidate his lines and focus on the dragons," Ulfric finally answered. "Who knows, maybe I'll be really lucky and the Dragonborn will be a Stormcloak."

"Just so long as he or she doesn't get the idea of being Tiber Septim the Second, we should be good," Irkand observed mildly. "The Ra Gada won't stand to be conquered again."

Ulfric was sharply reminded of the fact that Irkand was a temporary ally at best even as he agreed with the man. The ideal Dragonborn would be loyal and willing to take commands… or at least leave Ulfric in charge of Skyrim and focus on greater threats. It would be a poor reward for saving the world if Ulfric was forced to kill them in order to protect Skyrim.

The Jarl of Windhelm was reminded of a Khajiit knife-juggler he'd seen once in his youth. In some ways, he was like that cat, but instead of knives he was juggling the hopes and dreams of Skyrim, each one sharper than the keenest blade. And the consequences of dropping them were more severe than bodily harm.

If Ulfric failed Skyrim, then his people would exist nowhere else but in the halls of the dead god Shor.


	6. Blade Unsheathed

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I won't be rehashing the same old crap we read about the events at the Western Watchtower. I'm also altering some of the reasons for Sigdrifa and Rustem's alienation to make them not quite so crappy as people. Trigger warnings for PTSD and implied torture.

…

**Blade Unsheathed**

"_DOVAHKIIN!"_

"That's my signal to get moving," Delphine told Irkand as they ate breakfast the next morning. "The Greybeards are nothing if not predictable."

The Redguard nodded tightly, reaching for the leather armour he'd bought from Alvor. Nearer to his sixties than she, the man still had a physique to make a younger man envious, heavier in the shoulders and chest than he had been three decades ago and a wicked scar slashing across his abdomen proof of a past battle with Elenwen. Delphine had wondered a time or two if it would be worth it to kindle something between them, but the man had been emphatic that his sole concern was the Alik'r now.

"I'll accompany you to Morthal," he answered calmly. "Kematu is playing silly buggers with his location but there's someone in the swamps who can locate him."

_You could help me,_ Delphine thought sourly but said nothing aloud. Irkand had been honest with her, more than she expected from the Third Blade, and she really didn't need to antagonise one of the best executioners in Tamriel.

Since his visit to Whiterun, the Redguard had lost some of his grief; Delphine suspected that he might have received news about Aurelia Minor, Sigdrifa and Rustem's daughter. Esbern had been emphatic they find the girl, if nothing else, but by the time they got back to Bruma she'd been long missing. The loremaster had only determined the girl was alive.

_Rustem was so set on a son and Sigdrifa took the girl's birth as a personal failure,_ she thought sadly as she strapped her cane sheath to her back. _No wonder they practically divorced._

Arius had called her back from Elseweyr just before the initial purge of the Blades for disciplining after Delphine had executed two Skooma dealers who were trading the stuff to agents in order to manipulate them. Rustem had spoken in her defence, only to be shut down by the Grand Master who reminded the First Blade that it was Irkand's job to punish anyone who tried to subvert their order. Then the Great War began and Delphine found herself coming into her own as a general.

Within three years she was Second Blade, working closely with Rustem and listening to his bitching about the arranged marriage between him and Sigdrifa Stormsword, a Norc and former Shieldmaiden of Talos. Arius wanted access to the Half-Moon ebony and orichalcum mines and Durak, the Chief of the time, wanted his daughter in an honourable marriage. It should have worked, in theory, except Rustem was a self-absorbed ass and Sigdrifa a perfectionist.

_I didn't know it at the time. All I knew was that the great-grandson of the Hero of Kvatch fancied me and the knowledge I could die the next day was a powerful aphrodisiac._ Sigdrifa, of all people, had been the least outraged by their affair; perhaps she was relieved or maybe it was the fact that the Norcs, like their Orcish forebears, practiced polygamy. Arius had been disappointed but resigned, more worried about the war than his son's love life, and Irkand had been silent as always.

"We'll need to be careful in Morthal," Delphine said aloud, chasing away grim memories. "There's a small but competent Imperial presence there."

"I only intend to stay a night or two," Irkand replied. "I'm hoping that the agent I need to see can find either Kematu or Nazir. I'll settle for one or the other at the moment."

Delphine knew he was embarrassed at getting jumped by the Imperials. She thought he was overreacting about it, seeing as he escaped and caused Tullius serious embarrassment into the bargain.

"Just better hope Balgruuf doesn't let his sister-in-law Idgrod know you're wanted in Whiterun," she pointed out. "How _did_ you manage to get a five hundred septim bounty in four hours?"

"As I told Ulfric, I had neither the coin nor the ability to appease Jarl Balgruuf, so I had to improvise," the Alik'r responded tightly.

"You've made things harder for yourself."

"I _know_." Irkand rolled his shoulders to settle the leather armour in place. It showed off his muscular arms and legs. "So, I guess you're hoping the Dragonborn is a nice obedient musclehead like Ulfric is?"

"I'll settle for willing to listen to me," Delphine countered as he pulled on soft leather boots.

"If the gods truly hate us, it will be Kematu," Irkand observed dryly. From his frequent comments, Delphine got the picture that his 'commander' was an incompetent, to put it kindly.

"So how'd he get put in charge of you anyways?" Delphine asked.

"Politics." Irkand's voice said volumes on what he thought about it. "This is one of the first major operations run by all three Redguard factions since the Great War. Iman and Nazir are our biggest traitors, which means that bringing them to justice means a lot to Hammerfell."

"So… Kematu's a Crown?"

"Indeed. They're the old Yokudan nobility, so it was agreed that the nominal leader be one. The Forebears are financing this operation, so that means the second-in-command Sudrith is one. And because I'm the only one with any damned experience, I'm technically third-in-command and the Lhotunic representative." Irkand rubbed his beaky nose with a sigh. "Getting captured is more than an embarrassment to me. The Lhotunics – the moderates – are the only sane lot in Hammerfell at the moment."

"Will delivering Iman make your life easier?"

"Assuming Kematu doesn't take the damned credit, yes. If I show up with Nazir's head, he'll have to eat crow." Irkand sounded positively smug at that.

"I love your sense of priority, Irkand. The world's ending and you're worried about politics."

Those hard brown eyes met hers grimly. "Nazir and Iman fed intelligence to the Thalmor. One whiff of news from them about you… and Elenwen will burn Riverwood to the ground."

He turned away from her, shoulders stiff with annoyance. "Let's go. We're wasting daylight."

…

Morthal was as delightful as a small village stuck in a bog could be – which was to say not at all – and Falion cryptic as only a priest of Tu'whacca could be. "Nazir lies shrouded in darkness' embrace," the mage had said. "And Kematu has found a home amongst swindlers like himself."

Fucking priests and their fucking omens.

Irkand caught up with Delphine just as she slit the throat of a sleeping bandit. "Useless," he muttered. "I might as well help you deal with whatever death traps a Greybeard can devise."

The Breton smirked and bowed mockingly to the stairs leading down into the tomb… just as a too-familiar roar shattered the silence of evening.

"Dragon!" Irkand bellowed, driving a stunned Delphine to the ground and covering them both with stench-ridden swamp vegetation. Quaking with fear, he watched it make short work of the Morthal militia, transported back to Helgen and the stench of burned flesh. It set fire to a few cottages and a woman caught outside, her form turning to ash so quickly he had to assume she was a vampire, before sailing overheard towards the northeast.

When it was gone, Irkand crawled out from his hiding place, shaking and sweating like he hadn't since the day he'd returned to Cloud Ruler and found his father's crucified corpse.

Delphine was overconfident. Anyone born to kill something like _that_ would be incapable of being manipulated, would be a force of nature more like a storm than a being of flesh and blood, would have the soul of a god themselves…

"Talos wept," the Blade breathed as she emerged from his hastily constructed blind. "Looks like we have our work cut out for us."

Irkand's fists clenched as he struggled to pull himself together. What was wrong with him? He'd survived Helgen – surely he could handle something like…

"Irkand!" Falion's voice was hard and sharp as the priest unerringly made his way towards them. "What the fuck was _that_?"

"A dragon," Delphine answered as Irkand struggled to find the words.

"So the rumours from Helgen were true. Damn." The priest looked over his shoulder at the burning village. "Get your asses back to town. We need all the help we can get."

"Our job is to find that thing," Delphine retorted.

"Unless you're the fucking Dragonborn, you'll just wind up sliding down its throat kicking and screaming." Falion's voice was flat. "Now get up. I can cast Blizzard to kill the fire but I need two others to read scrolls with the spell and you're the only two damned intact people with most of your wits about you."

Irkand tried to answer but instead made a strangled noise. He had to get up, to help his fellow Lhotunic, but his legs wouldn't work.

Falion's dark eyes settled on Irkand and he gestured. An unnatural calm settled on the former Blade, allowing him to rise at the mage's command.

"You can fall apart later, brother. But now you have to help save a lot of people."

They returned to the village and with Delphine and Irkand reading out scrolls of Blizzard, they were able to help Falion put out the fires. The mage then burned through every Healing scroll he possessed, saving most of the injured villagers, which included the Jarl's daughter Idgrod the Younger and the Imperial commander. When it was over, Falion commanded Irkand back to his cottage and released him from the Calm spell.

The Redguard screamed until his throat was raw. What could they do against the dragons? Esbern had been right all those years ago. They were doomed to be devoured by the World-Eater, Dragonborn or not.

"He survived Helgen," Delphine explained softly to Falion. "I… didn't expect he'd be affected like this."

"I see." Falion sighed. "I've seen such reactions before to deep psychic trauma. He's taken a vicious blow to his spirit… and I can't say he'll heal from it."

"Teach me the Calm spell," Delphine urged. "If I can keep him functional-"

"I used a Charm spell and unless you fancy directing his actions and your own at all times, it's a bad option, even if it didn't disgust me," Falion interrupted flatly. "I only did it because it was an emergency. Now you're going to have to deal with the impact on your own."

Delphine glared at him… before turning to Irkand, delicate features set. "Batto," she commanded.

Shocked at her presumption despite his turbulent state of mind, Irkand immediately drew his wazikashi and knelt with it across his open palms.

"We don't have the time for you to fall apart, Third Blade, so I'm going to settle for commanding you instead. Until we deal with the dragons, your business with the Alik'r on hold. You will do what I say, when I say – is that clear?"

"Yes, Grand Master," he forced through numb stiff lips, voice hoarse from screaming. Part of him was betrayed at her presumption but another part of him, the tool that had been honed from birth to kill on command, was relieved. He had a competent commander again, a purpose again.

"Good." Delphine turned from him to look Falion dead in the eye. "You'll say nothing of this to the Legion, mage. Not even if the Thalmor are torturing you. Is that clear?"

The priest's eyes glittered. "As crystal."

"Then we're leaving." She left the cottage, door hanging open to let in the stench of smoke and snow, as Falion turned to Irkand.

"Brother-"

"Get word to Hammerfell. If we fail…" Irkand shuddered, eyes screwing shut. He was a broken Blade but one that had to be unsheathed regardless.

"If she harms you, she will die," Falion promised softly. "Remember, the Ra Gada never bow their heads unless it's on their terms."

But Irkand wasn't strong enough to agree. He instead rose numbly and nodded farewell to his fellow Lhotunic. Maybe one day, when he wasn't so helpless, he could come back and apologise.

The mage watched him leave, expression grim, before sending a particular message. He didn't know who the Breton was beyond being a Blade but he'd be damned if he watched someone take advantage of a wounded brother in the Alik'r.


	7. A Day Spent Fishing

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Some light smut in this chapter which is no indication of anything other than one of several potential pairings. Discussion of fantasy birth control in this chapter.

…

**A Day Spent Fishing**

Three days later and Tolal was still barely coping with the events at the Western Watchtower.

It had taken her a day to get everyone to stop calling her Dragonborn. One more day of threatening violence on Mikel stopped that damned song. And she was spending the third day sitting on the Great Porch of Dragonsreach, a bottle of Honningbrew Reserve in hand as she tried to come to terms with the fact that she was destined to square off against Alduin.

"Septim for your thoughts?"

Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, wearing little more than the old breeches he slept in, had managed to sneak up on her. His voice, richly accented and assured as only a Jarl's could be, was more sympathetic than she'd expected. Anyone else would be ecstatic to be the hero of legend and a Thane of the richest city in Skyrim. She just wanted her father's boat and the Sea of Ghosts back.

"Only if it's a clipped one from Riften," she answered wryly, setting aside the uncorked bottle of mead. "How can I serve you, my Jarl?"

Balgruuf sat down at the table across from her, ice-blue eyes surprisingly compassionate. "I'm relieved with your response to… everything," he admitted as he reached for a ripe red apple. "If you'd been basking in everyone's gratitude and demanding what you perceived to be your due, I'd have been worried."

"I want to go back and fish on the Sea of Ghosts," she said, her tone suspiciously whiny.

Balgruuf's eyes lit up. "You like to fish too?" the Jarl asked eagerly. "If you like a challenge, you should try fishing the rapids in White River Gorge."

"I'm… I _was_… a fisherwoman," Tolal told him. "Then a drunk idiot sunk my father's boat near Winterhold and I stumbled into the College. The rest is history."

The Jarl nodded, peeling the fruit with a dagger he pulled from a sheath inside his breeches. If living with huscarls and knives strapped to body parts was the price for being a Jarl, Tolal would settle for being a churl. "And then you get thrown into all of this rubbish."

"Yeah." Tolal sighed and stared up at High Hrothgar. "I'll catch the carriage to Ivarstead tomorrow. I… just need one more day."

"Do you want to go fishing?" At Balgruuf's sincere question, Tolal threw the man a startled look, only to be met with a slight smile. "I need to escape myself and the rapids are within a half-hour's walking distance. Maybe if you go back to what you did before all of this, you will find something to ground you."

"Won't Irileth have a hissy fit?" The huscarl was obsessed with keeping Balgruuf under lock and key, even when he snuck out to drink with his churls. Tolal couldn't imagine Skald the Elder doing that and Korir only ate at the Frozen Hearth because his wife was a lousy cook, not because he gave a shit about what the folk thought.

"I've set her to reviewing guard patrols and preparing firefighting procedures for when a dragon attacks." Balgruuf's expression was momentarily grim. "And Lydia will come with us."

Tolal wasn't quite sure to do with someone who was sworn to carry her burdens, defend her until the death and a few other duties, especially when they were Balgruuf's own niece. It didn't seem right to use her as a beast of burden and the part-Orc woman was capable of defending herself.

She looked up again at High Hrothgar and shuddered. She couldn't cope with destiny today. "If we go now, we might be able to avoid both of them," she suggested slyly, sensing Balgruuf's own need to get away. "Unless you want to be accompanied by servants to hand you the fishing rod and gut the fish and-"

The Jarl shuddered himself. "I can get my hands dirty," he told her with a faint smile. "Maybe I'll even teach you a thing or two about fishing."

Tolal roared with laughter. She'd been fishing for over two decades on the Sea of Ghosts; she could handle a little piddling rapid or two! "Challenge accepted," she told the Jarl smugly.

Surely the world could spare her for a day.

…

Apparently the Dragonborn had amorous intentions towards the fish she was trying to catch, if her use of particular Orcish phrases was anything to go by. Balgruuf concealed his grin as the deep sea fisherwoman, no doubt used to nets and harpoons, managed to get the hook caught in her hair yet again as she tried to cast the line into the rapids. Ensconced in a little nook near Riverwood at the edge of the rapids, he'd had a fine day of fishing while Tolal expressed her dissatisfaction with coarse words delivered in a delightfully husky voice.

She looked more comfortable in the homespun tunic and breeches he'd managed to scrounge up instead of the robes she'd been presented with as her reward for delivering the Dragonstone from Bleak Falls Barrow. Tall and lantern-jawed from her Orcish blood, her enormous mer eyes were the most extraordinary shade of turquoise he'd ever seen – the gold around the iris was brought out by her honey-hued skin. No one could insult the Dragonborn by calling her 'pretty', not when her wide under-bitten mouth smiled broadly even as she cursed the river salmon for being the dishonoured sons of the winter-dead and her black hair, tangled from the wind of the beautiful late summer day, fell to her waist. Even if she hadn't saved his city, Balgruuf would have found her attractive.

"My father must be cringing in Sovngarde at this moment," Tolal said as she tossed aside the fishing pole. "I'm certain the fish are laughing at me."

"Ah, but you can content yourself with the horkers running in fear whenever your name is mentioned," Balgruuf assured her with a grin. "If I met one, the only I'd kill it would be if it died of laughter watching me with a harpoon."

Tolal snickered. "I stand on the boat and shoot the bastards with a bow," she told him. "Good meat and you can do a lot with the fat."

Balgruuf nodded. "We don't see a lot of fresh horker down here. Venison, beef and chicken are the meats my people eat on a regular basis."

"Well, I can bring some down if you'd like. Frost spells are good for _something_." She stretched luxuriously, a movement that enhanced a pleasantly curvaceous form. Tolal wasn't whip-thin like Irileth or soft like Carlotta Valentina, instead being a combination of athletic muscle and a figure to match her sturdy frame. If she'd been kin to the Foe-Reaper at Half-Moon Hold, Balgruuf would have been happy to marry her.

"I'd like that. I'll have Avenicci compensate you appropriately." Balgruuf sighed, half in pleasure and the rest in chagrin, as he looked over his haul of twelve salmon. "I almost wish I could just escape sometimes. You know?"

"Yeah, I do." Tolal's voice was sympathetic. "I'm used to Jarls who don't give a shit about their people. Skald and Korir, to be precise. And both of them crack jokes about you being gullveig and demanding bribes. But… well… Whiterun's prosperous. Even Brenuin eats well and he's the damned drunk."

"I _am_ gold-hungry," Balgruuf admitted starkly, forced to honesty with the Dragonborn. "As much for myself as for Whiterun. The richer my city is, the richer _I_ am. A Jarl who bedecks himself in silk and jewels while his people starve is a tyrant – look at Siddgeir in Falkreath. But it is expected of a Jarl whose city is prosperous to be dressed in his finest. I _like_ fine things. I _like_ dressing myself and my court in the finest materials available. I look good, they look good, and we attract more business by being able to back up our appearance of prosperity with actual proof."

"If you'd have come out with some crap about being just a servant of your people, I'd have thought you full of more shit than a constipated horker," Tolal countered with a wry smirk. "But you're honest about your self-interest and that makes me feel better."

"I will tell you the great secret about this civil war," Balgruuf told her, feeling suddenly sad. "It might be won in the short term by superiority of arms. But in the end, it is the side who is best fed and supplied who will win."

Her turquoise gaze met his. "The Empire's got better equipment but they're stretched thin. Ulfric's got homeland advantage but eastern Skyrim has little in the way of resources that aren't controlled by the Norcs, the Orcs or the Thieves' Guild."

"Exactly." Balgruuf's fists balled as he recalled the news of his father and brother's deaths. "The Empire signed a treaty banning Talos with the bastards who crucified my father and brother… but Ulfric refuses to deal fairly with anyone who isn't a Nord unless they treat him like the Second Coming of Talos."

"I understand." Tolal regarded him sadly. "My birth parents were from Bruma. I… think they were Blades. How else could an Orc and a Bruma Nord meet and have a kid?"

Balgruuf's eyebrow shot up. "Looks like killing dragons is in your blood."

"Maybe." Tolal shrugged, glancing away awkwardly. "I'm a decent huntress, a pretty crappy apprentice mage and my biggest advantage is the use of the Clever Craft. But dragons…"

"You have a dragon's soul," Balgruuf told her gently. "But it doesn't mean you need to be a territorial killer like them. That's why I'm relieved you're uncomfortable with all of this: you have a strength and humility that no dragon can ever understand."

"You're full of horker shit, my Jarl," she growled in reply. "No wonder the cabbages grow so big in Whiterun."

Balgruuf allowed himself a lazy smirk. "Everything's greater in Whiterun than anywhere else in Skyrim."

"Yes, I've heard the story about how you got that 'the Greater' tacked on to your name," she drawled in response.

"Eh, Farkas of the Companions is bigger than me. But I've always preferred to use my tongue instead of my greatsword."

The innuendo slipped from his mouth, easy as taking a breath and releasing it, and a sudden silence fell between them. Balgruuf wondered if he'd offended her somehow or made her sceptical as to why he'd find her attractive; she was conscious of her Orcish blood, he could tell, though her demeanour and manners weren't any worse than the average churl's.

But Tolal's wide mouth curved slightly in amusement, full lips peeling back to reveal her delicate under-fangs. "You kiss as sweet as you talk, my Jarl?" she challenged huskily.

He took her in his arms and did his best to prove it.

…

It was a good thing that a dragon didn't come a-calling because Tolal would have been unable to deal with him. Having the Jarl of Whiterun's head between her legs proving that yes, he preferred to use his tongue instead of his greatsword, left her moaning shamelessly. Everyone assumed that she was self-conscious about her looks just because she was part-Orc; most of them were wrong. The urge to mate was a powerful one and while Tolal knew she was no beauty, she wasn't a Hagraven either and there were plenty of hunters and adventurers she'd tumbled over the years.

She came – loud enough to startle the birds in flight – and watched Balgruuf raise his head with the slow lazy smile of a man enjoying himself. "You taste like honey," he rasped, voice almost as guttural as a male Orc's, before licking his lips sensually.

A moan slipped from her lips at the sight of unashamed pleasure. Balgruuf's eyes darkened and the bulge in his breeches increased.

"May I?" he asked formally, as if they were at some Jarl's dance in Solitude.

"Hell yeah."

Balgruuf really _did_ live up to the rumour of how he got his name once he was undressed and if Farkas of the Companions was bigger than him, then the man had to be part-giant. Slow and easy he slid inside until he was sheathed to the short hairs; at her noise of frustration, something primal flashed across the man's long, worn face and he allowed himself to let go, hard and fast as she was used to from a dozen encounters and more.

She didn't know if this was what he had in mind with his suggestion to go fishing but she couldn't say she was displeased with the result. No doubt when the Jarls had their secret meetings he'd boast about ploughing the Dragonborn but after this performance, Tolal would happily confirm it. If he wasn't careful, he might wind up getting trampled by a horde of eager ladies.

She came again on the heels of his strangled cry as he spilled his seed within her, reminding herself to visit Arcadia for a barrenness potion. A pregnant Dragonborn was sort of awkward at the moment and she wasn't sure how Balgruuf would deal with a fourth babe.

_Judging by Nelkir being a Breton to his Nord sibs, he'd do the right thing,_ she thought as he rested himself on his elbows above her, face going slack with bliss. _But it'd be bloody awkward._

"So, you do this for all your Thanes?" she growled, toying with his long golden hair as it hung limply against his sweaty neck. "Or only the Dragonborn?"

"Only the most beautiful Thane in my court," he rasped in reply, panting heavily. "I mean, have you seen Olfrid and Vignar naked? I have in the sauna and by the Nine, it's not a pretty sight."

Tolal snickered and fitted her body to his with a pleased sigh. "Thank you. For the fishing trip and… this," she finally told him. "It's… helped settle me."

"You're welcome. And thank you for the suggestion to leave Lydia behind." Balgruuf's eyes sparkled. "I love my niece but she has a knack for killing the mood."

They lay together for a couple more minutes before rising as the sun began to wester. Tolal gave herself a quick clean up, admiring Balgruuf's rangy body as he did the same, and found him smiling at her.

"I will ask of you nothing that which you don't want to give," the Jarl finally said. "You saved Whiterun from a dragon and that's enough for me."

"Thank you again," she told him sincerely. "I'll… be visiting Arcadia's when we get back."

"That would be best." Balgruuf's smile was a little bittersweet. "Not that I would be ashamed to be the father of your child, Tolal, even if you weren't the Dragonborn. But we don't have the luxury of you being a mother at this moment."

One or two men had reacted poorly to her using a potion of barrenness, spoiling otherwise enjoyable encounters. Balgruuf looked a little sad and truth be told, Tolal was too. There were worse fathers than the Jarl of Whiterun, even if his kids were at the bratty stage in their lives that seemed to exist between thinking the world was a wonderful place and realising that there were a lot of crappy people in it.

"I wouldn't be ashamed to bear your child and not just because you're the Jarl," she answered warmly. "But you're right. If I must be Dragonborn…"

She looked up at High Hrothgar again, not shuddering this time but still feeling a chill. "I will make it safe to have children. For everyone."

They walked back in silence, understanding each other, and for the first time since she'd absorbed Mirmulnir's soul Tolal had a sliver of peace.


	8. Unwanted Burden

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing.

…

**Unwanted Burden**

By the third day of invoking the Blades' chain of command on Irkand to get him functioning again, Delphine was already regretting the decision. She'd been startled by the unflappable Redguard breaking down before her and training for critical situations kicked in; now she had a resentful Alik'r warrior on her hands who was making her command him to do _everything._ Delphine had never expected Irkand to be capable of such passive-aggressiveness.

They'd managed to get through Ustengrav and avoid any more dragons, taking shelter with Ulfric's people in the Hjaalmarch camp. Much to her surprise, the Jarl and his new right-hand man Ralof were there reassuring the commander that they were still amongst the living. She wondered if the rebel leader could do something to get Irkand out of his funk. She needed him functioning.

_You've dug yourself a pretty little hole,_ Delphine thought sourly as Ulfric emerged from the commander's tent with a wide smile.

"Why the long face? I would have thought you'd be pleased to know the Greybeards have called the Dragonborn," the Jarl observed, his smile slowly dying as he beheld Delphine, Horn of Jurgen Windcaller in hand, and a dour Irkand.

"Morthal was hit by a dragon," Delphine muttered to him, glancing at Irkand, "And I had to invoke the Blades' chain of command to get our favourite Redguard functioning again."

Ulfric's lips pursed grimly. "You cannot command someone to 'get over' such a trauma, Delphine. Trust me, I know."

"We don't have the time for him to fall apart now and I need him focused on the dragons, not fucking Hammerfell politics," she retorted.

Ulfric sighed and glanced at Ralof. "Organise a detail to scout out Fort Snowhawk. I need to know if we'll be able to take it over quietly."

"I'll lead it myself," Ralof said, giving Irkand a sympathetic glance. "If we can press Idgrod Ravencrone, perhaps her 'visions' will tell her the best option is to side with the Stormcloaks."

"Idgrod has a true seer's gift, never doubt that," Ulfric reproved. "She should be a priestess, not a Jarl, but that's how things turned out."

Ralof nodded and saluted, fist to chest, before calling for scouts. The golden-blond warrior would have made a fine Blades' recruit back in the day; if only he and Hadvar hadn't fallen out over the damned war…

"I can clear out a few gossips," Ulfric assured Delphine. "You have the Horn and the Greybeards will hold the Dragonborn for at least a week. Plenty of time to get back to Riverwood."

Delphine stared at him and the Jarl smiled mirthlessly. "The Greybeards aren't the only predictable ones, Second Blade."

Irkand gave a harsh bark that might have been laughter. "I should have expected her to bid me to unsheathe my blade," he said bitterly. "She is, after all, still technically my commanding officer."

The sarcasm, weak as it was, gave Delphine hope. "I'm sorry, Irkand," she began, only to receive a withering look from the Redguard.

"No, you're not. You're happy to have the Blades' best killer at your beck and call for the moment. You knew my triggers and pressed them all when I couldn't function. The weakness was mine."

"There is no shame in being frightened of a dragon after Helgen," Ulfric told him with surprising gentleness. "I'm still having nightmares about Helgen and Falinesti."

The Jarl of Windhelm wrapped a burly arm around Irkand's shoulders. "You're getting drunk tonight, my friend, and I'll join you."

Delphine stared at him. "We don't-"

"We have the time," Ulfric interrupted testily. "If Irkand doesn't vent now, he'll break later. Just because you've never crawled from the deepest pit in Oblivion, Delphine, doesn't mean you can possibly understand what Irkand – and myself – went through."

She watched the Jarl draw the Redguard away, not sure whether to be stung by the rebuke or seethe furiously at the Nord. The Stormcloak commander, whose name was Arrald Frozen-Heart, gestured to the map table.

"I could use some advice," the man admitted calmly. "You were a Blade, correct?"

"I still am." Delphine sighed and joined the man at the map table. "How can I help you?"

They got to talking about war and while Delphine was the superior tactician, the commander was a local man who knew the bogs like no other. At some point during the conversation, she heard a harsh sob from Irkand but steadfastly ignored it. Perhaps Ulfric was right and the wound needed to be purged. So long as he was functional, she didn't care.

One thing Delphine was incapable of was self-reflection. Another was regret. In a Blade, these weren't necessarily bad things, but if she wanted to be the Grand Master of a reformed Blades Order, learning from her mistakes might have been a wise decision.

…

Ulfric sighed as Irkand fell into an uneasy doze, mulling over the information that he'd picked up by gleaning through the man's broken-hearted ramblings. Much of it was useful, directly and indirectly, but he was reluctant to apply most of it in case he angered the Alik'r. An alliance between Hammerfell and Skyrim against the Aldmeri Dominion was something to pursue once the Empire had been thrown out.

_Closer to home, I need to keep an eye on this Tolal. The daughter of Sigdrifa Stormsword, niece to Hrafn the Foe-Reaper, is a wildcard._ Especially if she was the Norc apprentice mage who'd fetched the Dragonstone, as he strongly suspected, and politically neutral in the war.

He pulled a bearskin blanket over the sleeping Redguard and rose to his feet. Arrald was keeping Delphine busy by talking tactics – if the man was wise, he'd be gleaning knowledge from the Blade. Delphine _was_ a superior military theorist but her actual ability to command was virtually nil.

Ralof had returned from Fort Snowhawk, eyes glittering with triumph as he dragged back the corpse of an Imperial messenger. The man had hardened at Helgen and was proving to be a decent asset. "My Jarl," he said tightly. "I have three pieces of critical information."

Ulfric jerked his chin in the direction of the most secluded part of the camp as Ralof dumped the corpse, ripping off the messenger satchel. When the Riverwood man, now nicknamed Ice-Veins for his cool head in combat, joined him, the Jarl noticed that he was grinning fiercely.

"The Battle-Borns are feeding information to the Legion," he said once they were alone. "Balgruuf's going to explode."

"Maybe he'll explode, his brother will die from the shock, and Dagny will be more amenable than her father," Ulfric noted dryly.

Ralof shrugged, losing his grin. "Bad news first: the Thalmor have Thorald Grey-Mane. To give the Battle-Borns credit, they're trying to find out what happened to him and not out of gloating, if the tenor of Idolaf's letter is anything to go by."

Ulfric allowed himself a soft curse. "They want to put the Grey-Manes on a leash. Can we storm Northwatch Keep?"

"Not without a couple battlemages or a lot of scrolls," Ralof answered grimly. "But… I have two other bits of gossip that should make you feel better."

"Oh?" Ulfric folded his arms, regarding his newest agent sceptically.

"One: The Stone-Fist might be right about the location of the Jagged Crown if Rikke's orders to the Stormcloak commander in Rorikstead are anything to go by. Korvanjund, burial place of old King Borgas."

Ulfric's eyebrow shot up. To have the Jagged Crown, ancient helmet of the High Kings, would legitimise his claim considerably. "I'll have Hjornskar look into it," he finally said. "The second?"

"The identity of the Dragonborn." Ralof's lips, even in the dim light of a distant fire, were visibly twisted in wry humour. "It seems you had a political debate with her at the Sleeping Giant."

Ulfric's jaw dropped. "The Norc mage?"

"Yeah. Helped bring down a dragon at the Western Watchtower in Whiterun and absorbed the damned thing's soul." Ralof shook his head in amazement. "Balgruuf made her a Thane on the spot."

"The esteemed Jarl of Whiterun is no fool," Ulfric pointed out softly, glancing in the direction of Delphine. "Do you have a name?"

"Tolal."

_'Honey' in Dovahzul,_ Ulfric thought. Sometimes names in the draconic language popped up, half-remembered from eras gone by, but what wasn't known by the general populace was that naming something in that tongue shaped them. Tolal was no doubt a very sweet, easygoing woman at the core, no matter how her Name would expand under the tutelage of the Greybeards, but likely very slow to make decisions and liable to take manipulation poorly.

"Say nothing of this to Delphine and Irkand," he commanded softly. "In fact… hmm…"

The Second Blade had gone to sleep on one of the spare bedrolls, her satchel – no doubt containing the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller – within easy reaching distance of the paranoid Breton. "Get me that Horn by dawn," he added softly. "I have to make a trip to Ustengrav."

Any good commander knew that taking the battle-plan of another and making it your own was a valid tactic. And the Dragonborn would be drawn to Windhelm whether she liked it or not.

Ulfric had been challenged to make it a war for the non-Nords in Skyrim. If he could convert the Dragonborn to his cause, then it meant that Talos was truly on his side.

…

"Where the fuck is that fucking Horn?"

Judging by Ulfric's sour expression, he was about as pleased to be awoken by Delphine as Irkand was. But the Jarl was rubbing his bearded chin thoughtfully, eyes bright with remembrance.

"I… hadn't expected that particular story to be true," he finally said. "The Greybeards told me that the Horn was enchanted to return to Ustengrav if someone who _wasn't_ a Dragonborn or a Tongue took it from there. I honestly thought it was horker shit, but…"

Delphine's cursing turned even more inventive, incorporating Orcish phrases. Irkand didn't know her tastes ran to the old and withered Greybeards who were apparently sworn to celibacy…

Pouring out his grief to Ulfric had purged some of the poison but even drunk as he was, Irkand damned well knew he'd revealed critical information to the Jarl that he would use. Especially Tolal, who'd be a powerful political pawn as the only Nord-dominant woman of childbearing age from Hrafn's kin-

Something heavy collapsed near the camp, shaking the ground, and one of the scouts yelled, "Dragon!"

Irkand's heart began to pound with fear, eyes going wide-

"Looks dead," Ralof, Ulfric's new second, noted calmly.

"Won't stay that way unless the Dragonborn comes along," Ulfric pointed out sardonically.

_It's dead for now. Face your fear._ The stubborn voice that refused to bow in defeat after Cloud Ruler and Pale Pass urged Irkand forward to look at the bronze-scaled behemoth. One fiery eye regarded the Stormcloaks bitterly as he walked towards it, then widened in a fear that Irkand knew well.

_"Dovahkiin? Niid!"_

And Irkand's world became fire and light as Grahfrundnah relinquished his soul. It seemed that Akatosh was hedging His bets against Alduin's return.

"Feim," he breathed, becoming insubstantial. This would be useful for an assassin.

"Lorkhan's withered balls," Delphine breathed, voice tight with triumph. "We've got ourselves two Dragonborn."

She kicked the rattling skeleton that had been a dragon. "You hear that, you scaly bastards? You're all fucking dead. If one doesn't get you, the other will!"

"I don't need this," Irkand said to no one in particular. "Why me?"

"Oh, for the love of Talos," Delphine snapped. "You're the fucking Dragonborn!"

"Which means you have to take his orders," Ulfric observed with relish. "That is, of course, if you're still true to the oaths you made as a Blade."

Irkand stared at both of them in horror before turning around and running into the swamp. He needed time alone, time to think. What had he done to offend the gods to be burdened with _this_ on top of everything else?


	9. On Muffled Feet

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I'm playing merry hell with the main quest because I can.

…

**On Muffled Feet**

_Very fucking subtle, Ulfric._

Tolal was glad she'd reverted to her customary furs as she stalked through Windhelm, fists still hurting from beating the shit out of Rolff Stone-Fist for accusing that dark elf of being a spy. Gladder still that she was semi-known here as a fisherwoman and that she'd hired a couple dark elves to help haul the butchered carcass of a horker up to the Palace of the Kings. She'd collect the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller but on her fucking terms, not that bastard's.

The inside of the Palace managed to be colder than outside but Silf Iron-Kettle was happy to see her and happier to see the horker. She felt a bit bad about accepting a mug of hot spiced mead and a sweet roll from the man as he sought out Jorleif to arrange payment, but not so much that she'd play Ulfric's game. Downing the mead and roll – never let good food go to waste – she pulled on her bone ring, the one enchanted to muffle her movements, and stealthily exited the kitchen. She knew that things were tight for the Jarl of Windhelm as harvest tithes hadn't come in yet, so it would take Jorleif a good twenty or so minutes to come up with something to cover the cost of a fresh horker.

_If I can't burgle a place in twenty minutes, Brynjolf would sigh heavily and declare me the crappiest student he ever had._ Tolal had guided the man along the Sea of Ghosts after he'd hired her, picking up a few useful tricks from him in and out of bed. He'd proclaimed her competent and offered her a place in the Thieves' Guild but she hated Riften the one time she'd gone there. Still, now and then they kept in touch.

Once inside the private quarters of the Palace, Tolal downed an invisibility potion she'd brewed from vampire dust and ice wraith teeth. Bitter as hell but it did the trick, light bending around her as she stalked swiftly and silently to the Jarl's bedroom. It was human nature that anything precious – like the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller – would be kept close to the Jarl.

As Brynjolf would have said, she hit the honeypot. Within a locked safe that took way longer than she expected to pick she found a very nice ornate horn of mammoth ivory (presumably the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller) and an odd brownish-grey helm made from bones and teeth. Apologising mentally to the Thieves' Guild for the grief she was about to give them, she took the whole lot, including a head-sized sack of septims and polished gems that could buy her a very nice boat if she could fence them.

_Might need to haul arse to Riften once I'm done with the Greybeards,_ she thought glumly as she shoved everything into her satchel. A door opening very close to her nearly made her jump until she forced herself back into hunter's mode. _Brynjolf might have some ideas on where I can find Words of Power._

She'd need to check in with Savos and tell him what was going on too. Only the gods knew how the College would react to her being the Dragonborn of legend. At least it couldn't get any worse with someone like J'zargo being the hero of prophecy.

She downed her other potion just as Ulfric himself walked in, grateful she'd thought to close the safe again. In the moment just before he closed the door, she managed to sneak out, hoping he missed the brush of fur against his leggings. Getting caught burglarising the Jarl's Palace would be… awkward.

Silf walked in just as she was helping herself to some rather nice aged Breton cheese, making her jump with embarrassment. "Oh, help yourself," the cook told her cheerfully. "Jorleif's just finishing tallying your payment."

"I'm done," the Steward announced at the door, walking in with an enchanted hand-axe. "We're out of coin and I know you wouldn't want a load of goods, so I got Wuunferth to enchant this up for you. If it's not to your liking, you'll be able to fetch a bit of coin from it."

"Thanks," Tolal answered gruffly, figuring that she could disenchant the damned thing to learn from it. Sergius was impressed with her knack for enchantment.

She took the axe and made her farewells, citing the tide going out as her reason for leaving hastily. If two and two were put together, they'd be looking first in Dawnstar, not Winterhold – she hoped.

If Ulfric thought he could outwit the Dragonborn, he had another thing coming.

…

"Hey Brynjolf. Apparently we burgled the Palace of the Kings in Windhelm."

The Day Master of the Thieves' Guild snorted derisively as he uncorked a bottle of Maven's piss-poor mead. "We wouldn't have the luck," he told Delvin Mallory, taking a swig. "Even if things are looking up a touch."

"Whoever they are, we should recruit them. Robbed the safe in the Jarl's own bloody bedroom!" Delvin's voice was awed and rightfully so. Even in their heyday, it would have taken a Thief with balls the size of the moons to pull off a stunt like that.

"I'll keep an eye out for freelance talent."

The door from the Ratway creaked open and shut, prompting an angry yell from Vekel the Man that this wasn't the Bee and Barb. "You're right. The Bee and Barb's a bigger dive," retorted a rough contralto that sounded vaguely familiar.

A woman in rough furs, honey-skinned and black-haired with enormous blue-green eyes, emerged into the circle of light that surrounded the bar. "Just the smooth-talking bastard I wanted to see," she said with a grin that revealed delicate Orcish under-fangs.

"A pleasure to see you again, lass," he answered, striving to remember her name.

"Tolal. I guided you across the northern coastline after you robbed the Jarl of Dawnstar," the part-Orc woman said, smirking amusedly. "Don't worry, I won't tell your friends we slept together."

"You _must_ have been desperate to fuck Brynjolf," Vex noted sardonically from her favourite corner.

"Now that's just cruel, Vex," Delvin told her as Tolal tossed a small bag of coin to Vekel.

"Your best mead. Preferably Honningbrew."

"I've got Black-Briar Reserve," the barkeep retorted.

"If I wanted to drink horker piss, I'd hunt one down myself."

"You, I like," Vex said with a smirk. That worried Brynjolf. If Vex liked someone, it was usually because their snark rivalled hers.

"How can I help you, lass?" he asked, sensing a business opportunity coming up.

"I have some things I need fenced. Yeah, I know your Guild doesn't like freelancers and I'm not planning to join, but some smartarse saw fit to steal something I'd been sent to retrieve for someone else, so I took it out of his hide."

With her casual explanation, Tolal dropped a few flawless garnets and a diamond on the table. "I gave the amethysts to Talen-Jei for his wedding ring and sold the sapphires to Madesi," she admitted cheerfully. "There's two items I intend to keep for myself. But I'll happily sell these to you."

"…Did you rob the Jarl of Windhelm?" Brynjolf couldn't think of any other way a poor fisherwoman and occasional adventurer could have gotten her hands on so many valuable items.

"Yep." Tolal was matter-of-fact in her confession. "Heard any rumours from Whiterun?"

"Some garbled nonsense about dragons, lass, but-"

_"FUS!"_ Tolal's Shout scattered a few wooden plates, startling everyone in the Flagon. "Ulfric thought he could manipulate me, the fucking Dragonborn, by stealing the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Retrieving it is part of the trials the Greybeards set folk like me. So I simply decided to play the game my way, not his."

"What's it worth to you for us not to sell the information to the Jarl of Windhelm?" Delvin asked shrewdly.

Tolal's mer-like eyes glittered dangerously. "I don't tell Savos Aren about Enthir fencing shit for you."

"No pissing matches in the Flagon," Vekel ordered tersely, bringing the Dragonborn a bowl of vegetable stew and some ordinary mead. "I'm sorry for my behaviour earlier, Tolal – I remember you sold me those books from Yngvild."

"Sick bastard who wrote 'em and a sicker bastard who bought 'em," the woman responded flatly, accepting her meal. Delvin, who'd wisely shut up, pored over the gems she'd dumped on the table, humming approvingly.

"I know, but not my business to judge, only to sell." While Vekel wasn't the confidence man Brynjolf was, he had a few things running, and one of them was retrieval of exotic goods for certain people in the Ratway. "I do wish you'd think about joining the Guild though, Tolal. We don't have a lot of people with your survival skills."

The woman smirked. "I'm technically a member of the Mages' College in Winterhold these days – and a Thane of Whiterun."

Brynjolf sighed, rubbing his face. He didn't need a goddamn legend dropping into the Guild if she wasn't going to join. "So, if you can Shout, I assume the World-Eater's back?"

"Yeah." Tolal's voice lost its good humour. "I need to find whatever information I can on the dragons. The Greybeards dole it out like fucking pearls from the Emperor's hand…"

Delvin rubbed his bald head thoughtfully. "Hey, what about that crazy guy Esbern in the Warrens? He's always rambling on about dragons."

"The Blade?" When the other two Thieves looked at Vex, she smirked. "Anyone with half a brain from Cyrodiil recognises the wazikashi, the Blades' ritual dagger. If you're of Akaviri ancestry, you carried the tanto; if you were a Blades initiate, you carried the wazikashi; and only their most senior officers carried the katana or dai-katana."

"And the Blades used to serve the Dragonborn." Brynjolf smirked at Tolal. "Looks like you've hit the honeypot, lass."

"Give me the location and I'll let you keep the gems," she answered promptly. "I actually recognise that name – he was at the College of Winterhold until Ancano turned up about twenty years ago."

Brynjolf nodded with another smirk. "Well, then, lass. I'll guide you… in return for you telling me how you robbed the Jarl of Windhelm."

"Done." It was a shame that Tolal was emphatic about not joining the Guild as she was a born confidence woman, playing on the fact that people naturally assumed people of Orcish blood were stupid; Brynjolf was pleased when she credited his lessons in sneaking and lockpicking for her quick and easy burglary. It had never occurred to him to use a legitimate delivery as a way of getting access to someone's house; it would be a technique he'd look into in the future.

The door to the Ratway opened again, earning another frustrated yell from Vekel. Tolal was something of a business partner but the Flagon had never been a social spot for passers-by.

"Enough, Nord dog." The voice was haughty and precise as only an Altmer could be: a tall, lean goldskin in severe black and gold robes stalked into the place like he had every right to be there, accompanied by two armoured guards. "I am Nurancar the Younger and I am here to arrest the Blade Esbern. Stand aside and you will be permitted to continue living your miserable lives."

Then his head was split in two by Tolal as she threw a lightning-enchanted hand-axe. The other two Altmer froze for one fatal instant as she followed it up with dual-cast Lightning. Dirge, a shadow amongst shadows, made sure of them with his own iron axe.

"Knowing how the goldskins operate, there's bound to be more," Tolal growled angrily. "Where's Esbern? We need to beat the Thalmor to him."

"It seems the Thalmor need a lesson in manners," Mercer Frey, the Guild Master, said as he emerged from the cistern. "Brynjolf, I want you, Thrynn and Sapphire- Who the hell is she?"

"This is Tolal, the Dragonborn, and she's here for that Blade holed up in the Warrens," Brynjolf reported.

"I see." Mercer's grey gaze swung her way. "Since you have brought trouble to the Guild's doorstep, you can help sort it out. I want every Thalmor in the Warrens dead within the hour."

Tolal nodded with a savage grin. "It will be done. Can I borrow Brynjolf?"

"Of course." Mercer Frey stalked back into the cistern, leaving the disposal of mer bodies to his lessers.

"So… where's the local Stormcloak commander?" Tolal asked as she turned to Brynjolf. "If the Warrens are as twisty as the Ratway, we should have enough time to fetch him and a few musclebound morons to do the dirty work for us."

"You, I like," Vex repeated as the other Thieves began to grin.

…

Esbern huddled behind his metal door as the Thalmor fought Stormcloaks outside. Had he been betrayed by the Thieves at last or were the witch-elves planning to make sure the world ended in Alduin's maw?

It finally fell silent, leaving him unaware of who won the battle. Ever since the news from Helgen, he knew it was truly the end and wondered if he should commit honourable suicide. But the sliver of hope offered by the Prophecy of the Dragonborn stayed his hand despite it being useless.

Someone pounded on the door. "Open up!" growled a vaguely familiar woman's voice.

"Go away!" Esbern quavered. He couldn't let whatever meagre knowledge he possessed fall into the wrong hands.

"Fuck it," she muttered. Then: _"BEX!"_

The metal door swung open, ripping off the ten locks, and revealed a tall woman in rough furs generally worn by hunters, accompanied by Day Master Brynjolf of the Thieves' Guild.

"Esbern, meet Tolal the Dragonborn. Tolal, meet Esbern the Blade." Brynjolf's voice was barely jocular, his Reach lilt failing to hide the iron-hard tone of a pissed-off man.

But the loremaster's eyes were for the painfully familiar woman who stepped inside, smiling reassuringly at him. She was an adult but he would know those huge eyes anywhere. "I might have fangs, old man, but I don't bite," she told him gently.

"Dragonborn," he breathed in awe. "When your grandfather asked me to stand as your godsfather, my girl, neither of us expected that _you_ would be the one to save us all."

Her eyes widened but remarkably, she didn't break down and demand answers. Instead, she acted very professionally as she turned to Brynjolf. "I think the Stormcloaks got all the Thalmor," she told him. "I need to get Esbern to Winterhold-"

"Is Ancano gone?" the loremaster asked.

"He soon will be," she promised darkly. "The only other place I could possibly stash you is Whiterun and I'm not sure Jarl Balgruuf would welcome having a Blade dumped on his doorstep."

"There is a third option," Esbern suggested quietly. "I could take refuge at Half-Moon Hold."

"Why the fuck would the Foe-Reaper care about a random Blade?" she retorted. "Just because I'm part-Orc-"

_She doesn't know. Ah, my poor girl, you've been alone all this time in the world when you had a whole family who would have protected you. _"Your mother was Hrafn's sister. And the Norcs have been allies to the Blades since the time of Aurelia Northstar."

"Well, this month's been a barrel of laughs. Lose my father's boat, join the College, become Dragonborn and find out I'm related to an ass who wouldn't approve of me living my own life. I suppose the way things are going I'll find out Alduin's my third cousin or something."

"Well, as Dragonborn, you technically have a dragon's soul-"

"That was sarcasm, old man." She crossed muscular arms and regarded him grimly. "I'll get you to Half-Moon Hold. On the way, you're going to tell me everything you know about dragons… please."

"Gladly." Esbern managed a weak smile. "I'm sorry if I surprised you with news of your, ah, birth family…"

Tolal shrugged. "My father is Dag and my mother Adelheide. I grew up in Dawnstar. I always figured my birth parents were Blades but so far as I'm concerned, my folks were fishers from a shitty little port on the Sea of Ghosts."

"Understood, my dear." Esbern smiled at her again before turning to collect the most necessary of his tomes for the trip. "May I still think of you as my granddaughter?"

"…I never had a grandpa," Tolal answered, a little sadly. If only she knew how Arius had doted over her. "So yeah, you can."

The loremaster smiled, feeling hope blossom in his chest for the first time since Cloud Ruler Temple fell. There was yet life in the world; the gods hadn't abandoned Nirn after all.


	10. No Mortal Can Own a Dragon

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Rather dark chapter because Irkand's not exactly in his right mind; trigger warning for killing of a vampiric child.

…

**No Mortal Can Own a Dragon**

Astrid was in the middle of arranging an execution when the door to the abandoned shack in Morthal that served as a Dark Brotherhood outpost rattled with the force of a knock. Sighing, she glanced to Nazir to get it; Arnbjorn was due from his own mission in Solitude and maybe he'd decided to join them. Or if it was someone looking for shelter, an impromptu test for a new member to replace Festus, who'd died of a heart attack, could be arranged. Whoever it was, she was secure in the knowledge that the Dark Brotherhood could handle anything.

The Redguard opened the door to reveal a haggard-looking man from his own race. "Fuck!" he swore, falling back hastily and drawing his scimitar. "It's fucking Irkand!"

"Nazir of House Suda," Irkand, a man whose eyes gleamed gold and with oddly slit pupils, intoned in a hoarse voice. "You are guilty of treason against the Ra Gada."

Astrid drew her Blade of Woe; she'd never seen Nazir so scared shitless of a man. "Before you get any bright ideas, know that Nazir's a member of the Dark Brotherhood. You're outnumbered, Redguard."

"He's a Blade-turned-Alik'r," Nazir said through gritted teeth. "They call him the Executioner."

"Your friend sold out the city of Talenth to the Thalmor," Irkand continued relentlessly, gaze feral. Astrid inwardly shuddered at the intensity of that gaze, the need to unleash fury and blood, even as she looked askance at Nazir. They'd found him in Falkreath drinking himself to death and brought him to the Sanctuary after he beat another man for a few septims.

"It's true, Astrid. Because the Thalmor had captured my sister Iman." Nazir's voice was grim.

"Iman was collaborating with the Thalmor," Irkand retorted hoarsely. "You could have kept your honour if you'd not opened that gate. But now your sister's off to Hammerfell and you'll be greeting her at the Far Shores."

"There's no need to be hastily, Alik'r," Astrid crooned. "You look like a man of murder, one the Dark Brotherhood would welcome with open arms."

She walked closer to touch the Redguard's powerful shoulder. Judging by his slightly shorter but stockier frame to Nazir, he was part-Imperial, but the muscles shown through his leather armour wouldn't have disgraced a far younger man. The Speaker of the Brotherhood let her fingers trail down the man's arm, appreciating the shudder that ran through his body, the way the desire for violence turned into something else. He'd suffered a major blow recently; the vulnerable were always easy to exploit.

"I thought all the Blades died at Cloud Ruler Temple," she noted gently. "How did you survive?"

"I was away," he rasped. "And it seemed Akatosh had a bigger plan for me."

_His eyes…_ Astrid recalled an old story about the day Talos lost his temper and executed three Reachmen; the skaldic description always included his eyes flashing like a dragon's. And the winged monsters had returned…

"So Akatosh has put out a contract on the World-Eater, hmm?" Astrid smiled, watching those slit pupils dilate. "You'd make for an excellent Dark Brother, Irkand. We could help you kill the dragons and give you a family again."

"We both know that Kematu would throw you under the cart for control of the Alik'r," Nazir pointed out. "The Dark Brotherhood, on the other hand, won't betray its own."

Astrid applauded the Redguard for getting over his fear; it was promising that if this Irkand could scare Nazir, the coolest head she knew. And the Blades had always been competent.

_With the Dragonborn at our beck and call, we could regain our respect,_ she thought, daring to hope.

"A home again. A family again. Everything I could ever want…" Irkand murmured, draconic eyes elsewhere.

"Indeed," Astrid promised.

"And all it would cost me is Heaven's Reach Temple and the regard of my ancestors."

The Speaker snorted softly. "The afterlife is overrated. My uncle made inappropriate advances and because I killed him in self-defence, I'm denied Sovngarde as a kinslayer. Give me the here and now with siblings who will never betray me."

"Your ancestors don't include Northstar, the Hero of Kvatch," Irkand countered. "She who became Sheogorath, the Madgoddess."

"The Dread Father is greater than all, even Sheogorath," Astrid pointed out. "If you're refusing because you're scared of a madwoman, you have no reason to be. You are the Dragonborn."

Irkand raised his eyes to Astrid. "Give me Nazir's life and I will join."

The Speaker gasped, looking between the Redguard who was her second-in-command and the Blade who was Dragonborn. It was a bitter choice to make; Nazir was loyal but Irkand… Irkand had the appearance of a man looking for someone to tell him what to do. The Dragonborn following Astrid's every command? The Dark Brotherhood would be invincible.

"If you can kill him, his life is yours." She had to give Nazir a fighting chance.

Before she could even react, the Blade of Woe was snatched from her hands and thrown at Nazir, landing in the Alik'r's throat. He collapsed with a bloody gurgle, eyes betrayed, and Irkand stalked over to pull the enchanted dagger from his corpse. He admired its edge for a long moment before turning to face Astrid.

She was speechless. The man had to be nearly sixty and he'd killed a younger warrior in his prime within heartbeats. "Welcome to the Family," she told him, finding something to say at last.

"I think not," Irkand answered. "You have made a liar of yourself. You sold out your Dark Brother."

Astrid unleashed the Grah Graat, the Battle-Cry, and was pleased to see the man quail back. She could regret the loss of Nazir later-

Irkand recovered far quicker than she expected and rammed her dagger into her gut. "I'd almost hoped-" The man's voice was harsh with grief and something mad glittered in his eyes. "If you'd refused, I would have joined."

Coughing blood, Astrid died mourning how one mistake in judgment had possibly destroyed her family.

…

Irkand trudged into Dragon Bridge, the heads of Astrid and Nazir in a bag and four more dead people behind him. In the end, he'd spared the mother, telling her to find it in her heart to be gentler because someone had arranged for her to be assassinated. He'd almost lost himself in a honeyed voice and the hope of a place in this world again. But Astrid had betrayed her own family and he couldn't trust that.

There was a Penitus Oculatus outpost here and Irkand supposed he might be able to collect a bounty. It felt good to be wearing Alik'r garb again, even if it was Nazir's repaired and much-worn clothing, and he felt a little closer to himself again. He… needed some time. And since there was another Dragonborn running around, he intended to take it.

A Commander in the Penitus Oculatus was issuing final orders to a young man who looked like him. "Be careful," the older man was saying.

"I'll be fine," the youth answered in the weary tone a thousand generations of children had affected when faced with their parents' concerns.

"You should listen to your father," Irkand advised mildly as he walked up to the pair.

The Commander's face, hawkishly handsome in the Maro way, paled slightly. "Gaius, start with the arrangements in Solitude," he commanded of his son.

"Yes, Father." Apparently missing the fear in his father's eyes, Gaius Maro nodded cheerfully enough to Irkand and began to stride in the direction of the capital city of Skyrim.

"I'm not actually here to kill anyone, only deliver a head," Irkand assured the man. "I have my quarrels with the Empire but as of yet, the Alik'r are uninvolved in the civil war."

"The only standing bounty I've got at the moment is the one on any confirmed member of the Dark Brotherhood," Commander Maro responded, recovering his aplomb swiftly.

"I can confirm two deaths, but Nazir's head stays with me as he's an Alik'r traitor," Irkand responded, finding peace by slipping back into the role of the Executioner.

"Fair enough." Maro's eyes nearly bugged as he opened the bag Irkand handed him. "Astrid? By the Eight!"

"She tried to kill me. I took it personally."

Maro handed the bag back with pursed lips. "You know, when word gets out, the rest will come for you."

Irkand felt his lips peeling back as the dovah within began to snarl. "Then I will kill them too."

Maro's eyes glittered thoughtfully. "What if I told you that I have the password to their last Sanctuary?"

Stalk and execute. It was something Irkand had done dozens of times and even if the order came from the Empire, he'd gladly take on an old duty to ground himself. "Despite the quarrel between Hammerfell and the Empire, we both agree that the Dark Brotherhood needs to go," Irkand agreed.

Maro delivered the information and promised a reward, which Irkand was disinterested in. The Dark Brotherhood had tried to manipulate him and… he needed to deny the Empire a resource. Too many people, judging by the letter Irkand had taken from Astrid's pocket, were using them to rearrange the political climate in three nations.

But he was happy to help the Penitus Oculatus in this case. Besides, the Alik'r could use a base just inside Skyrim's borders.

…

Sudrith nearly spat out his drink as Irkand ibn Farrah, declared a traitor by Kematu, walked into the Dead Man's Drink with Nazir al-Suda's head in a bag. "I got sidetracked," the former Blade said flatly. "Did you get Iman al-Suda? I left her with Tariq and Jawan the Giant."

"And earned yourself a considerable bounty in Whiterun," the Alik'r second-in-command noted. "How _did_ you manage that?"

"I lost everything when I was captured by Tullius in the Rift," Irkand admitted sourly. "So I had to improvise."

"Kematu's declared you a traitor," the Forebear warned him.

Irkand raised his eyes and Sudrith flinched as he realised they'd changed: golden and slit-pupiled. "Why?" the Executioner demanded.

"Disobeying orders for discretion, apparently." Sudrith rolled his shoulders. "Orders you obviously didn't receive if you were at Helgen."

Irkand flinched. "I was. And…" He took a deep breath. "I am one of two Dragonborn, it seems."

"Dragonborn, as in the Septims?"

"Dragonborn, as in that conquering bastard Talos," Irkand responded in Ra Gada. "In short, I can kill dragons and absorb their souls."

"So you're a walking dragon soul gem." Sudrith sighed, running through the report Falion had dispatched. Priests of Tu'whacca were the only ones permitted to use Conjuration but did the mage have to use such a creepy messenger as an undead pigeon? "I see you managed to lose that Blade-bitch. Left her in the bog?"

"I ran screaming into the marshes, actually, after I found out I was Dragonborn," Irkand admitted starkly. "Ran into Nazir and Astrid of the Dark Brotherhood, killed them, and delivered her head to Maro of the Penitus Oculatus."

Sudrith's jaw dropped. "The mad luck of the Aurelii is true," he breathed. Only Irkand could go temporarily insane and wind up executing a traitor.

"I don't know." Irkand's expression was troubled. "If Astrid hadn't promised me a place in the Brotherhood if I killed Nazir, I might have joined her."

Sudrith could guess how Astrid had tried to play the Dark Brotherhood as a big happy family. Irkand had been adrift since his family and order had been killed in Cyrodiil; not even the Alik'r could rectify that loss. The Lhotunics had tried to find the man a wife but he didn't seem interested, instead being obsessed with killing Thalmor and trying to find his niece, whose body had never been discovered in the Temple of Talos in Bruma. "I'm glad you didn't, brother," he said sincerely.

"So are the Penitus Oculatus. They've asked me to kill the rest of them." Irkand's eyes glittered. "Their Sanctuary isn't too far away from here…"

_And close to the border._ Sudrith found himself smiling. The Forebears were more willing than the Crowns to deal with the Lhotunics because at least the moderate faction recognised the need for change. If Irkand could deliver a hidey-hole in Skyrim for the Alik'r-

-Well, Kematu would look like the incompetent he was. And this band would have a new leader.

"I've got three brothers sitting on their asses," Sudrith said eagerly, rising to his feet. "Let's get this over and done with."

…

"What is the music of life?"

"Silence, my brother," Irkand whispered. It was wrong. The music of life was a little girl's laughter in the middle of a war, the camaraderie of sharing kaf with an Alik'r brother beneath Secunda's light and the metallic taste of adrenaline in the midst of a battle.

They were allowed in, only to meet a massive silver-haired Nord man who instantly became a werewolf.

By the end of the battle, two Alik'r brothers were dead, Sudrith lost half of his sword-hand and Irkand had picked up another gut-wound from the vampire child who nearly ripped him in two. Only Tammas, the youngest of the Alik'r with a knack for Restoration, had saved his life when he cast Tu'whacca's Bane on the girl.

"We'll need Falion to cleanse this place," Sudrith said as he rubbed the newly healed edge of his maimed hand.

"I'm getting too old for this shit," Irkand groaned as Tammas healed him.

"We could return to Hammerfell, brother. I and Tammas will vouch for you before the Alik'r Council."

Irkand gave a twisted smile. "No, brother. Our work is not yet done. Not only do I have Alduin to contend with, but there is another task we have the chance to complete."

And he told them. When he was done, Sudrith rubbed his hand again in what was sure to become a tic.

"We should make contact with this other Dragonborn first of all. Rumour from Whiterun is that she's a part-Orc woman named Tolal."

The Redguard sat up, earning a curse from Tammas. "You're shitting me!"

Sudrith's eyebrow shot up. "I'm not, brother. Jarl Siddgeir already sent a courier hoping to sell her a piece of prime land in return for getting rid of a bandit group that hasn't been paying its dues to him."

_Akatosh, you son of a bitch._ "This goes no further than you two until we decide what to do with Kematu. Do you know how I would chase after every little rumour of survivors from the Great Chapel of Talos, even when I knew they were likely Thalmor or Imperial traps?"

Sudrith, like any Forebear, was far from a fool. "Your brother was married to an Orc, right?"

"A _Norc._ Basically, after the Oblivion Crisis obliterated Heljarchen Village and Garraz-Yal, the survivors banded together under their leaders Sigdrifa Bright-Moon and Oleg Half-Human to form Half-Moon Hold in a more defensible part of Skyrim." Irkand recalled Durak Half-Moon reciting his clan's history with pride despite the real outrage that the mix-blooded group received from both sides. "Two hundred years later, their descendants practically breed true and practice an amalgam of tribal Nord and Orcish ways. They sit on some of the richest mines in Skyrim and can throttle trade between Whiterun and Windhelm."

"Good for them!" A Forebear, dedicated to finding new ways forward, would approve of the Norcs. "So _that's_ why you were in the Rift."

"Oh, I was tracking a rumour of Iman but was going to swing through Riften and check the Honorhall Orphanage records." Irkand sighed and laid back down to let Tammas finish healing him. "Then I ran into Tullius, wound up in Helgen, fled from there when Alduin attacked and ran into Delphine…"

He… wasn't sure how to deal with her. He knew that she was trying to fight the dragons and had used protocol to command him… But Irkand found that he was no longer a simple tool, as much as he wished to be. Akatosh had given him this power for a purpose and it wasn't just to defeat Alduin.

"Delphine is to be left alone. Her actions… Well, she's as rootless as I was before you found me. And honestly, she's an extraordinary tactician. If she'd come to Hammerfell instead of Skyrim, we'd be knocking on the gates of Alinor with catapults by now."

Sudrith's dark eyes glittered as he looked at Irkand. "Only Kematu can make that kind of decision, brother… Unless you plan to challenge him for command?"

"If I challenge him, I have to challenge you-"

"I'm happy being second. The Forebears can swallow their pride for the good of Hammerfell."

"Like you swallowed Tiber Septim, eh?" The sarcasm slipped out of Irkand's mouth before he could stop it.

"A Forebear was the first to see Nafaalilargus," Sudrith replied tightly. "We never expected to wind up with Richton, Dram or N'Gasta. And remember, even Cyrus had to bow to Tiber Septim."

"And me and Tolal are the first true Dragonborn since Talos." Irkand sighed and rubbed his temples. "I don't know what kind of woman my niece has become but I do know she was a fisherwoman in Dawnstar, so I doubt she's the conquering kind. As for me, my allegiance is to Hammerfell."

Sudrith squatted on his heels in the manner of the desert folk. "You should meet her, Irkand. It will do you good. But you'll have to challenge Kematu because… well… you know 'I am descended from Cyrus' third cousin'. He'll call you a traitor just for being this… Dragonborn."

Irkand nodded grimly. "You're right, damn you. But if you think to lead through me…"

His eyes glinted as he allowed the dovah to reveal itself. "You will discover no mortal can own a dragon."

Sudrith smiled. "No. But the dragon can belong to Hammerfell."

Irkand lay back, content to rest as a brother healed him. It seemed he was meant to be a leader like his father and brother after all.


	11. Malacath's Own

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Combining the Volendrung quest with Tolal's visit to Half-Moon Hold because I can. Oleg has the voice of Gideon Emery (Dragon Age 2's Fenris or every second Legion Soldier you meet). Grah Graat is Dovahzul for 'Battle Debate' – or my head-canon name for the Nords' Battle-Cry.

…

**Malacath's Own**

Ulfric waited for a battered and bloody Gonnar Oath-Giver to down a couple flagons of mead and have a Battle-Maiden tend his wounds before making the man give his report. The Jarl was torn between being impressed at Tolal's cunning and being pissed off at her robbing his bedroom. If he'd reacted a few moments sooner, he might have had a Dragonborn to hand. Irkand had vanished into the bogs of Morthal, though a rumour from Falkreath had him returning to his Alik'r brothers there, and… well… Ulfric would sooner trust a woman raised in Skyrim over a Redguard with an allegiance to Hammerfell any day.

"There's only one place she'll go without having to pick a side in the war and dragging Balgruuf into it," Ralof pointed out once Gonnar was done.

"Half-Moon Hold." Ulfric sighed and poured himself some mead. "If the Foe-Reaper could be persuaded to join the war effort-"

"He would demand much in return. Recognition as a Jarl at the very least," Jorleif, his steward and civilian adviser, finished with a sigh. "At least Tolal isn't the kind of woman to be sold off to the highest bidder."

Silf and Jorleif knew the Dragonborn as a fisherwoman and hunter of horkers who preferred to stay in the Grey Quarter rather than deal with the prejudice of the city guard. She had a reputation as being pragmatic, competent and staying loyal once bought but having a somewhat amoral approach to whoever she guided along the Sea of Ghosts and willing to work for anyone but the Thalmor.

"Send a message to the Dragonborn offering my apologies for attempting to manipulate her," the Jarl finally commanded, slumping against the Throne of Ysgramor. "It was unworthy of me."

"If she's an apprentice at Winterhold, I should be able to get a hold of her readily enough," Wuunferth the Unliving observed thoughtfully. "If not directly, then through Savos."

Ulfric nodded to his court wizard. "And send another to the Foe-Reaper. Tell him I wish to make a visit to his Hold in the next few days."

It would be a waste to war upon the Norcs and not just because of their strategic location and the sheer amount of forces it would take to bring down a fortress built by the greatest smiths in Skyrim outside of the Grey-Manes. Hrafn had helped rescue Ulfric from the Thalmor facility in Falinesti, as had Rikke; it broke Ulfric's heart to fight his old friend and while he didn't consider the Foe-Reaper a friend, he respected the hell out of a man who'd responded to the one Thalmor attempt to destroy his shrine to Talos by crucifying them and offering half to the Hero-God and half to Malacath.

The Jarl reflected on the Norc Dragonborn: tall, roughened by the weather and… well… attractive compared to her Norc aunt and grandmother. He knew that trying to win the Dragonborn's allegiance through politics was pointless; Tolal didn't seem to care. He… could even appreciate her points to a certain extent, though she needed to be less friendly to the greyskins.

"Jorleif," he said quietly. "You appear to know Tolal best and you deal with the Foe-Reaper more often than I."

"The Foe-Reaper would welcome a union between you and his clanswoman," Jorleif promptly replied. "But it would be the Dragonborn who's hardest to win over. You've already insulted her and she doesn't forgive manipulation easily."

Galmar regarded Ulfric incredulously. "Half the unmarried maidens of Skyrim and a good many wedded women would gladly accept your suit and you're thinking-"

"None of those women are the Dragonborn and to be brutally honest, I would sooner bathe in acid than court one of the Foe-Reaper's kin in better times. But you know how close the war is, how canny Tullius is. Whoever wins the Norcs wins Skyrim."

There was nothing his huscarl could say to that because it was the complete truth. In a better time, Ulfric _would_ marry a pure Nord maiden – probably Nilsine Shatter-Shield – but he needed the power of the Dragonborn at his command. He'd gotten off on the wrong foot with Tolal; perhaps he could start again and win the woman to his side.

_Dragonborn she might be, kin to the Foe-Reaper she might, but still she is a fisherwoman. Surely the suit of a Jarl, even one who'd insulted her, would at least be something she considered._

Failing that, he'd need to find a way to win the Foe-Reaper to his side and hope that Tolal cared enough for kin-bonds to cooperate.

…

Hrafn Half-Moon, melodramatically called the Foe-Reaper for the massive Akaviri war scythe forged from orichalcum he wielded, a gift from an Orc Blade he later wed, leaned forward in his comfortable chair as Sigdrifa's daughter approached with an older but still recognisable Esbern in tow. A little delicate compared to her kin, Tolal was still sturdy enough and fairly attractive in the human way; perhaps, just perhaps, Malacath had finally answered the desperate prayer of a dying chief for the strength to protect his people.

_I will gladly offer my life as trade, unworthy though it be, if the Hold continues and grows stronger._ Kharal and Lakhra, his Hunts-Wife and Forge-Wife respectively, would go on to advise his successor. Hrafn had already made plans for Arakh to be… dealt with… should he be cut down by the thuggish eldest son; Balgruuf had made it plain that if he didn't, the Jarl of Whiterun would.

"Hello," the Foe-Reaper greeted aloud, taking up the yokel drawl he knew irritated Jarls and led his enemies to assume the Orc blood made him stupid. "Do you prefer Tolal, Dragonborn or niece?"

A thick eyebrow shot up as Tolal's expressive face revealed stunned surprise. Hrafn allowed himself a wry smirk. "Skyrim is smaller than you think and you've guided my boys around more than once up north," he continued. "I figured you didn't remember who you were and… much as I could use the offer of your hand to win an alliance for the Hold, I couldn't compel someone who didn't swear by Malacath."

Honesty, Hrafn had found, was the best policy. It meant that when he had to lie, everyone believed him because he always told the truth before.

Tolal, who wore a plain set of mage robes, nodded curtly. "There's a lot of fingers who'd like to dip into my pie," she agreed in a softer, more melodic growl than the voice of a pureblood Orc woman. "Ulfric already tried to manipulate me and the Thalmor want me dead."

The Foe-Reaper shook his head in amusement. "Welcome to my world, sweetheart."

The Dragonborn gave a short bark of unamused laughter. "I'm not even here for myself. I'm going to assume you're keeping track of general gossip in Skyrim and therefore know I'm a Thane of Whiterun and Apprentice mage at Winterhold. I'm also going to assume you know Esbern of the Blades."

"A Nord intelligent enough to be a loremaster's a rare thing, so yes, I remember him," Hrafn countered dryly, nodding to the old mage.

"The Thalmor tried to kill me," Esbern said grimly. "I believe this is the only safe place for me."

The Foe-Reaper rose to his feet, subduing the grunt of pain from the movement. He knew it was unseemly for a man to hang onto his chiefdom for so long while sick, but the intelligent ones amongst his sons weren't ambitious and the ambitious one was dangerous and stupid to boot. "Blades always are welcome here while I am chief," he assured the loremaster, adding the warning that his time was coming to an end.

Esbern, who knew something of Half-Moon Hold and its ways, pursed his lips as Tolal looked troubled. "I only suggested here because it was one of the few places in Skyrim free of Thalmor that isn't under Stormcloak control," the mage sighed. "If we are… problematic, there is a place in the Reach-"

"I'm not going to toss you out while I'm chief," Hrafn interrupted, stung that Esbern thought he was withdrawing hospitality. "I should give you warning though that Ulfric's coming to pay a visit in the next few days."

Tolal's eyes glittered dangerously. "I bet he knows we're related and wants to use that as leverage."

"I wager he's hoping he can offer himself as a suitor for your hand," the Foe-Reaper responded grimly, wishing silently that this tough, hard-eyed child of Sigdrifa's had been a boy. Tolal didn't know it yet but she had the makings of a leader.

But a child of Malacath didn't bother wishing for what he would have liked; he dealt with what the world was. "I'll give Esbern sanctuary. The deal my father with the Blades will endure until I am dead. But I'm not young and my boys are rising man-high, ready to rule. They may feel differently."

"I only need enough time to translate the Annals of the Dragonguard," Esbern assured him. "That shouldn't take much more than a week."

"Which will be enough time for me to get to High Hrothgar and back," Tolal added. "I am… grateful, Uncle. If you need my Voice, it's yours."

The Foe-Reaper bowed his head gratefully. "Before you go, I'd like to put you through your adulthood rites as a Norc… if you wish. Whether or not Malacath will accept you as one of His own will be up to Him, but it'd make me easier to know Sigdrifa's daughter has her birthright."

"Will it mean I can be traded as a bride?" Tolal asked bluntly. "I'd be honoured but I'm not chattel."

Hrafn supposed he shouldn't be surprised at the question. Tolal had lived independently for most of her life and only Malacath knew what those outside the strongholds thought of Orcish (and to an extent Norcish) ways. "Daughters can refuse marriage: your grandaunt Sofja studied at Winterhold because she had a preference for women and she's our wisewoman. Two of my Orc-dominant girls are married to Orcish chiefs: Shel's at Dushnikh Yal and Tanja took herself over the border to High Rock to secure trade links for our ebony outside Skyrim. The third, Akhra, is our blacksmith and married to a Nord man. Of my boys, Arakh, Gorek and Saibash have all indicated they want Orcish wives while Oleg has indicated he'd happily marry a Nord woman and even move to her city if need be."

It had hurt to know Oleg, the smartest and most diplomatic of his boys, the one who'd studied at the fucking Bards College, was completely uninterested in being the chief. But there was nothing Hrafn could do but hope the boy made a good match.

But Tolal was nodding in obvious relief. "Then I'll do it," she agreed. "It'd be good to have family – my adoptive kin are dead and while the folks up at the College are decent enough, they're not family – and I can supply horker for the clan."

No promise of making a marriage that would further Hrafn's goals of securing the Norcs a place in Skyrim's governance. But the Foe-Reaper knew enough not to press his luck. Not when the embodiment of Akatosh's will stood before him.

"Take a seat then, sweetheart. I'll tell you about the clan while the wisewoman prepares."

…

Hrafn the Foe-Reaper wasn't the complete ass that Tolal expected him to be and his support was less than Esbern had promised but in the lines of his ugly, under-bitten face and enormous blue-green eyes she saw the echoes of blood and kind. He was kinder than the Chief of Narzulbur, from whom she'd won the right of Blood-Kin after finding the Forgemaster's Fingers, and a far shrewder politician than the Nords realised. Except for Balgruuf, who spoke well of him and mourned that he didn't have a Nord-dominant kinswoman to bind Whiterun and Half-Moon Hold together.

Except now he did, one who knew what the Jarl of Whiterun was capable of in bed and more than passingly fond of the man. It should have been a simple enough thing to suggest she and Balgruuf wed, for all the arrogance of a fisherwoman from Dawnstar in saying so, but something deep within said no. It might have been her hard-won independence or the dovah refusing to take a mate who hadn't proven himself. Or it could have been Tolal's own damned stubbornness and the knowledge an apocalypse breathed down her neck.

Now she stood, face painted in ritualistic patterns of daedra heart's blood and troll fat, before an orichalcum-green sphere of light that spoke with Malacath's harsh voice. Tolal was the Dragonborn, a dovah cloaked in mortal flesh, but the Prince of the Sworn Oath and Bloody Curse was a Daedric Prince. He'd eat her for breakfast.

"So, Sigdrifa's daughter's the Dragonborn." Malacath's growling tones were neutral on the matter, though she thought she detected a hint of pride that Orcish blood ran through the veins of Skyrim's prophesised saviour. Perhaps it was her own arrogance suggesting that.

"She is indeed," Hrafn said, the pride in his voice obvious, though the weakness that made his body tremble was subtle. Tolal wondered if she were the only one to see it.

"Mauhulakh's aunt Bolar named her Blood-Kin after she retrieved the Forgemaster's Fingers for him," Malacath continued. "She has the right to enter, trade and seek shelter at any stronghold."

"I would be counted as Tolal gra-Half-Moon," the Dragonborn answered before the chief could speak. "I have spent much of my life being looked down for being part-Orc – or Norc, as it were – and now I would have the world know that I am not ashamed of that blood."

Dag and Adelheide had never been derogatory about her ancestry, her foster father even procuring a book of the Code of Malacath (well, what was known to an outsider) for her twelfth birthday. It had been Skald the Elder and those who proclaimed the superiority of Man over Mer who looked down upon her. No doubt Ulfric was gritting his teeth and thinking of Skyrim about the thought of marrying her.

_Fuck 'im,_ she thought pugnaciously as she sensed Malacath mulling over her words. Balgruuf was more charming and intelligent, genuinely grateful for her company and damned good in bed, if she took that path.

"I'll not insult you with an easy task," the Daedric Prince finally said. "To the south lies Largashbur. Its chief has become a weakling, allowing giants to overrun My shrine and hence I've cursed them. Wisewoman Atub has petitioned Me for an answer: you shall be My answer, you and Hrafn's boys."

Sofja, who remained silent other than for the invocation of Malacath, now spoke. "Has Half-Moon Hold done something to be deprived of its heirs, Lord Malacath?"

"Not yet. The Foe-Reaper worries about the future of the Norcs. I set his brood a task that will winnow the chaff and leave someone worthy enough to challenge him."

Hrafn drew himself up. "Oleg has told me with blooded palm to the Amulet of Talos he has no wish for the chiefdom and will marry for the good of the stronghold, if need be."

'With blooded palm' was the most solemn oath an Orc (and presumably Norc) could make, Tolal knew that much. It was like swearing on an Amulet of a Divine – and she was unsurprised to find out they worshipped Talos here too. Esbern had said her mother had been a shieldmaiden of the war-god.

"I accepted his oath." Malacath sighed. "Sometimes strength isn't physical. He's wise enough to know he wouldn't be able to keep the Hold together."

"If Tolal ain't interested in Balgruuf, I have hopes of wedding Oleg to Balgruuf's girl Dagny," Hrafn admitted softly. "He's a bard and got all those court manners."

Tolal would bet that Malacath knew about the time she'd screwed the Jarl, so she thought at the Prince, _"I keep my silence for my own reasons, including the fact that Alduin is the priority."_

_ "I wasn't saying a thing," _Malacath responded. _"You'll either pass the test or fail it, but you won't die."_

That was some small comfort. Giants were bad enough on their own but in multiple numbers…? She'd better hope her fireballs were up to the job.

"He's still going. He is one of My Own, pretty words or not," Malacath growled.

Hrafn bowed his head. "Your will, my Lord."

Tolal pursed her lips. So much for getting to High Hrothgar and back again in a week or so. "We'll leave on the morrow. If I pass, I'll send the boys ahead while I go to High Hrothgar."

"If you succeed, Atub will let me know," Sofja assured her. Tolal wished she had more time to get to know her grandaunt but… time was against her now, if ever it was with her to begin.

"That's some relief, because from High Hrothgar I'll need to hightail it to Winterhold and tell 'em I'm alive." Tolal rolled her shoulders, feeling the comfortable leathers and fur stretch. She really didn't like the robes and had decided to avoid learning the Alteration skin-hardening spells for now.

"Fair enough." Sofja, a Nord-dominant woman who looked nearly as rugged and under-bitten as the Foe-Reaper, smiled wryly. "Tell Urag he owes me for the book I sent him. He'll know what I mean."

"I will." Tolal turned to the ball of light that was Malacath and nodded curtly. "I'll get those giants out one way or another."

"Good." Malacath sounded slightly approving. "Try not to die."

She supposed that was as close to wishing her luck as the Prince of the Spurned could get. Tolal nodded again and squared her shoulders. The next few days would be interesting.

…

"And here I thought Orcs couldn't fly."

Apparently in addition to becoming a natty dresser and master courtier, Oleg had taken a course in sarcasm at the Bards College. Tolal had nearly choked to death on a bowl of horker stew after his wicked imitation of the time Mauhulakh had visited Half-Moon Hold. Even now she stifled a gruff chuckle as the Chief Yamarz, whose blatant cowardice had led to Largashbur being cursed by Malacath, flew through the air to land with a sickening crunch that told them all he was dead.

Saibash and Gorek were the real contenders for Half-Moon Hold in her opinion as Arakh was… a thug. Strong and tough, aye, but he failed to appreciate the delicate balance that the Norcs helped maintain in central Skyrim. If he'd been an Orc chief in an isolated stronghold, he could afford to be isolationist, but since the Norcs sat on some of the richest mines and trade routes in the northern province…

Tolal forced herself from political wonderings as the giant who defiled Malacath's shrine gurgled something in its indecipherable language and charged in their direction. Arakh roared a challenge and met it with a swing of his warhammer while the other boys fell back and to the sides to flank it.

Tolal settled back and aimed fireballs at its head as Arakh bludgeoned its broad ribs. With Oleg using a crossbow and the other boys using bows, the big bastard wouldn't have a chance. Soon it died, big eyes flickering with fear and Tolal feeling awful for it, as Arakh roared victoriously.

"I have restored Malacath's shrine!" he proclaimed.

"And so you have," Atub, wisewoman of the Largashbur stronghold, said from the cave's entrance. Tolal spun around, wondering how in the name of Malacath and Mara she'd missed the older Orc woman following them. "The chiefdom of Largashbur is yours if you desire it, Arakh. Gularzob died fighting off the giant and Yamarz's boys are strong but more content to follow."

"You have no issues with me being a Norc?" the heavy-shouldered young man – he was easily ten years younger than Tolal – demanded with narrowed eyes.

"Malacath gave you the strength to slay the giant. That is enough for us." Atub's face was a little sad and Tolal could well guess why; no mother wanted to bear a milk drinker who got her tribe cursed yet Yamarz had still been her child and a strong leader. Only the gods knew how he'd weakened enough to let the giants overrun Malacath's shrine.

"Do any of you contest my right to the chiefdom?" the Norc continued, eyeing his brothers warily.

Saibash snorted. "Of Largashbur? No." He was rangier than Arakh and Gorek but sturdier than the almost frail-looking Oleg, who wore orichalcum-studded leathers instead of the full plate his brothers wore. But all of them had the blue-green eyes of a human ancestor that had run true since the days of the Oblivion Crisis.

Gorek nodded in agreement with Saibash. He was less aggressive than Arakh but more courageous than Oleg, who while no coward still preferred to let his wits instead of his fists do the fighting.

"I have no desire for _any_ chiefdom," Oleg admitted cheerfully.

Atub raised an eyebrow at the bard, who returned her gaze calmly. If the Norc wasn't her first cousin, Tolal might have wanted to get to know him a little better. But even Hrafn admitted that while they could use an influx of fresh Nord blood, he wasn't going to tell his boys to marry their cousin.

The wisewoman turned to Tolal. "I assume by the fireballs you took out the giant outside?"

"I did," Tolal responded respectfully, treating this woman like she would any other priestess – for she was one, of Malacath.

"You will make a fine wisewoman of your Hold," the Orcish woman said approvingly. "Should that path be open to you… Dragonborn."

She glanced to Arakh. "Pick up the giant's hammer and let us return to Largashbar."

Arakh bridled at the command but obeyed. They trudged back to the orc stronghold, nestled at the foothills of the Jerall Mountains, where Esbern said she'd been born and raised. Tolal glanced at the southern border and felt… nothing. Home was a cold sea riddled with ice floes and the icy bite of the wind from Atmora.

Once they were at the altar, Malacath's voice issued from the finely carved granite statue that adorned it. "Yamarz was a coward and a liar. He sought to have the Norcs kill the giants for him and claim their honour."

"I knew the bastard was looking shifty," Oleg noted dryly. "If it's any consolation, Lord Malacath, for a brief moment in time he was the first Orc to take up flying."

The Prince of the Bloody Curse snorted. "Keep up with the bad jokes, Oleg, and you'll be the second."

"If You are the one to throw me into Kyne's realm, Lord Malacath, I will cherish the honour just before I go splat," Oleg answered blandly, his tone on the sunny side of respectful sarcasm. Tolal had to give him points for having the balls to snark at a Daedric Prince.

"Smartarse," Malacath growled, but to Tolal's surprise He wasn't angry. In fact, He seemed by Oleg's courage. His attention turned to Arakh. "Take the hammer – My Volendrung – from the altar. You've earned it."

Grinning broadly, Arakh obeyed and roared a Grah Graat that echoed off the mountains and sent birds flying. Tolal had to agree with Malacath even as she felt relief that Arakh likely wouldn't cause too much trouble in this isolated part of Skyrim.

"Ugor will go to Half-Moon Hold as a bride for whichever of your brothers becomes Chief," Atub added calmly as a slender (for an Orc) woman came forward, clad in fine steel plate. "We are in debt to the Norcs and will pay it accordingly."

Judging by the way both Gorek and Saibash eyed Ugor, they didn't seem to mind. Tolal met the young woman's eyes and noted the slight blush on the cheeks. She didn't seem to mind being the first wife of a future Chief herself.

"Tolal." Malacath's voice drew her attention to His statue, the eyes alight with a feral but not animal intelligence. "You killed a giant. You passed your rite of adulthood."

"Thank you, Lord Malacath," the Dragonborn responded, nodding respectfully as she would a Jarl. She was getting the impression that Malacath despised those who kowtowed.

"You're beginning to understand," the Prince of the Spurned murmured.

"There's honestly not that much difference between a free Nord and an Orc of the strongholds," Tolal pointed out softly.

"So I was told by Oleg Half-Human when he petitioned Me for the right to take a human bride after an Oblivion Gate destroyed his home and hers," the Daedric Prince agreed. "So far, the Norcs haven't disappointed, even if Hrafn's hanging onto his chiefdom with ragged nails."

Tolal glanced to Arakh wryly. "I think now he knows that Arakh won't be leading the Norcs at a critical moment in their history, he might be happy to pass on the torch."

She felt a pang on saying that, knowing full well that soon he would die at the hands of one of her cousins. But Hrafn _was_ sick – she could see it in the tremble of his body, the slightly yellow tinge to what little sclera he had. Better a sword-death or sea-death than the straw-death of sickness.

"I am a worthy chief!" Arakh shot back.

"I didn't say you weren't," Tolal retorted. "But the Chief of Half-Moon Hold needs to be as tough as an Orc and play politics equal to or superior than a Nord. If you had been Chief there, Arakh, Ulfric would have piked your head at the gates and gotten fat on the mines."

"The Stormcloak." Malacath's growl was amused. "He fancies himself a worthy mate of the Dragonborn."

Tolal allowed herself a bray of laughter. "No one, man or mer, is a worthy mate of the Dragonborn unless she allows it. And I've yet to settle on one."

Malacath chuckled in dark agreement. "I've permitted the Norcs many allowances, Dragonborn. Perhaps I might even allow a woman-chief, one with a dragon's soul."

Her cousins gave her a startled glance but Tolal was already shaking her head. "I cannot. Not while Alduin flies, while Ancano darkens the doorstep of the College in Winterhold. But… maybe You should give thought to female chiefs in general."

"It would take a hero of legend to make Me think of it. But one never knows." Malacath sighed. "I will not press Akatosh for you are a child of He. But you are also one of My Own, in part, and owe Half-Moon Hold as much allegiance as you do Whiterun. I name you Tolal gra-Half-Moon, Wisewoman of Half-Moon Hold. Now go show that overgrown lizard that even the spurned are not to be trifled with."

Some of the jagged pieces in her heart smoothed a little, fitting together, as she made peace with her Orcish heritage. She was a Norc of Half-Moon Hold and she supposed Wisewoman was like being a mage. She wondered if the Orcs had anything like the Clever Craft…

Tolal kicked herself and looked towards High Hrothgar. She had to return the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller and… well… only the gods only knew. But for good or for ill, the world would know the Dragonborn was here, ready to kick some overgrown scaly chicken arse.


	12. Son of Sand and Sea

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Massive amounts of HC for the Redguards here.

…

**Son of Sand and Sea**

Sudrith and Tammas stood at Irkand's back as he strode into Swindler's Den with Nazir's head in a bag. The very fact that Kematu had paid off a group of bandits to shelter the Alik'r instead of executing them and taking over the camp told the Dragonborn plenty about the way the Crown thought. If Cyrus knew what his bloodline had become, the ancient hero would be spinning in his grave.

"Only use the Voice if you must," Sudrith, more experienced at formal duels for leadership than Irkand, advised softly as the bandits let them past.

"I'm not happy about being Dragonborn. I can only assume that Akatosh _really_ wants Alduin dead," the former Blade answered wryly.

"That's a relief. The Voice is a weapon like anything else… but it will remind our people of Talos." Sudrith sighed, rubbing his nose. "Honestly, unless your life is in danger, wield it only against dragons."

They reached the dank innermost cave where Kematu and about ten Alik'r – mostly Crowns with a smattering of Forebears – lurked. "What happened to the Lhotunics?" Irkand muttered to Sudrith.

The Forebear's eyes were grim. "I'm not sure. I was assigned to Falkreath after Kematu declared you a traitor. I'm sad to say that if they were… disposed of… many of my men would work with the Crowns against a mutual enemy."

Irkand felt a low rumbling start deep within his chest, the dragon within awakening. The Lhotunic Alik'r had relied on him to keep them alive and if he failed them…

…He would never forgive himself. But Kematu would die.

"Sudrith, you're late." Kematu's rich haughty voice echoed throughout the cave.

"And you're dead, Kematu," Irkand answered with cold precision. "I claim the right to trial by combat since you have decided to declare me a traitor."

Several curses came from the men as the Crown turned, a lean man in his prime, to find Nazir's head thrown at his feet. "Impressive, Irkand. You managed to find the time to eliminate a traitor in between getting captured by the Imperial Legion, making the Jarl of Whiterun ban every Alik'r from his Hold, and gallivanting about with the Stormcloaks in the company of some Breton whore."

Irkand's fists clenched. Despite his mixed feelings about Delphine and her desire to manipulate him and Tolal, he wouldn't stand for the Second Blade to be insulted so. "That 'Breton whore', as you so charmingly describe her, is Delphine Revanche, the Second Blade," he retorted silkily. "Be glad you will be dead before I mention the insult to her."

Ragai, one of the slightly more competent Crowns, pursed his lips grimly. "We all know the Prophecy of the Dragonborn, Irkand – you gave it to us. I can forgive the association with your fellow Blade and… well… the Forebears have something of a point about making alliances with people outside of Hammerfell against the Dominion. I'd prefer Stormcloaks doing the dying instead of Alik'r when the time comes."

"I'll bear all responsibility for getting captured by the Legion. I was sloppy," Irkand admitted with a sigh. "As for Whiterun, Iman al-Suda was trying to sneak out. I had to act swiftly."

Ragai smirked. "At least you own your mistakes, Irkand. But you _did_ violate the Alik'r watch words – which you yourself set in place – of discretion and stealth."

"I did." Irkand inclined his head to the Crown. "But I also hear the guards were on alert because of Kematu sending in men to try and snatch her."

"Kematu sent in a trio of incompetents," Mehin, a slight, softly-spoken Crown, observed flatly. "But that's beside the point. You've just barely redeemed yourself for getting captured with the presentation of Nazir's head. _My_ concern is you not reporting immediately to Kematu in the wake of Helgen."

Irkand allowed his lips to peel back in a thin smile as he stepped into the light of a flickering torch. "Why don't we just say the Lord of Time had a different plan for me?"

It had been Sudrith who revealed the change in his eyes, confirmed when he looked into a tarnished mirror that Astrid had left behind. Irkand had expressed his opinion of Akatosh in several different languages before abruptly calming down and accepting the way the winds of time blew.

"Dragonborn." Ragai's voice was tight with something approaching fear.

"I am. But I am also a son of the sand and sea. I was lost until the Alik'r found me. I was kinless until you found the clan of my mother. I was without direction until you gave me purpose." Irkand slowly turned around, meeting the gaze of each and every Alik'r. Crown or Forebear, none of them flinched to their credit despite a vaguely nauseous expression on several faces.

Talos, who had conquered them, had been Dragonborn. And now they were facing a man born outside Hammerfell for all his Redguard blood as a real nightmare made flesh.

"By their nature, dragons are territorial and dominating. They hold what they are strong enough to keep and if they should fall, their very souls feed the power of the other dragon that slew them," Irkand continued calmly. "How is this different to being Ra Gada? We were strong enough to take and hold Hammerfell, strong enough to spit in the face of the _last_ Dragonborn to conquer us and force him to favourable terms, and strong enough to throw the Aldmeri Dominion out when the Empire proved too weak."

He stared at Kematu. "You had some excellent opportunities to wipe out the Thalmor operatives in Skyrim. I can guarantee you that delivering Elenwen's head to Ulfric Stormcloak would earn you almost any boon short of the man's desire for a free Skyrim or his hope of Sovngarde. Skyrim isn't worth the trouble of conquering for on their own ground, the First Men are fearsome warriors indeed, but they will make for excellent allies when we march upon the Dominion."

"You speak like your Imperial sire," Kematu retorted with deadly softness. "The Lhotunics would join the Forebears in mongrelising our people until we are all as _you._ You are not a true Alik'r. You're not even a true Redguard."

The Crowns muttered, some in agreement and others in consternation. Irkand had survived for a week in the Alik'r Desert in high summer as part of his initiation rite into the Alik'r warriors. Whatever his bloodlines, he had earned the right to wear the leather bracers and burnoose.

"Perhaps I am not," Irkand agreed with an edged smile. "But I am the Dragonborn who will help put Alduin into the ground, the one who will serve Hammerfell until my dying breath… and the one who slaughtered the Dark Brotherhood, set fire to the Night Mother, and gained for us a base in Skyrim."

Mehin and Ragai exchanged glances. "You've redeemed yourself for being captured," the former grudgingly conceded. "But I am not certain I could trust you with leadership, Irkand. You've always been a follower."

Irkand smiled grimly. "I also bring other news. Titus Mede II is coming to Skyrim within a month. The last great General of the Empire is already here. If the two should die…"

"Cyrodiil would be in chaos. Mowhra's tits, it already is." Sudrith stepped forward, eyes glittering. "I'm inclined to agree with Irkand about Skyrim. Let the damned Nords have the damned place. But whoever controls the centre controls Tamriel. We have no desire to conquer the lands of the mer and High Rock's too fractious to be worth it. But if we control the Imperial Province…"

"Are we strong enough to _hold_ it?" Ragai pointed out shrewdly.

"Many of the senior Alik'r were Legionnaires and there are still many Imperial-born Redguards within the Legion today," Sudrith countered. "If we take care of a few strategic targets for the Stormcloaks, Ulfric will owe us. We could parlay that into a non-aggression treaty which would protect our northern flank while we marched into Cyrodiil. So long as we kept the atrocities to a minimum, I believe the Colovians wouldn't give a rat's arse who sits on the Ruby Throne so long as the carts run on time."

Kematu sneered as even the Crowns looked intrigued. Most of them, Lhotunic and Forebear jokes aside, weren't incompetent – they just focused on Hammerfell first and tended to ignore the other provinces. Someone had to watch the hearth anyway, Irkand supposed. "And I suppose you would be the new Talos, the Emperor sitting on the Ruby Throne, Irkand?"

"As Mehin noted, I'm not much of a leader. Short-term missions like the one I'm proposing, yes," Irkand observed dryly. "Emperor of Tamriel? No."

"Perhaps High King Sura could marry the highest-ranking Imperial woman he can find as a second wife to seal his claim to the throne," Ragai mused. "That would mean the High Kingship itself would be up for grabs."

_Ragai, you clever, clever bastard._ Every Crown, in theory, had the right to inherit the High Kingship as they were all descended from the old Yokudan nobility. The childless, widowed High King Sura, a shrewd and cosmopolitan man who leaned towards the Lhotunics politically, would gleefully go for the Ruby Throne and hold a competition to test the calibre of his would-be heirs to the rulership of Hammerfell.

"Irkand, I know you wouldn't lie about such a thing, but I've heard repeated rumours of another Dragonborn-" One of the Crowns began, only to be quelled with a look from Irkand.

"She is a Norc from Dawnstar. My Khajiit contacts say she is a lovely woman without a conquering bone in her body." Irkand smiled slightly. "Dragons are… territorial. I will be making contact with her once the question of leadership is settled and agreeing to treat Skyrim as her… strunmah, her mountain, so to speak, so long as she leaves Hammerfell alone."

"You are making several assumptions," the Crown continued, raising his chin stubbornly. "One is that Ulfric will win Skyrim's civil war."

Kematu nodded, seizing on his man's reasonable observation. "How do we know you aren't working for the Imperials? You _did_ meet with the Commander of the Penitus Oculatus recently."

"To collect a three thousand septim bounty on the head of Astrid, the leader of the Dark Brotherhood," Irkand responded calmly. He'd split the coin with Delphine. "And you forget, Kematu, that the Empire stood by and let my family die. Do you think I'd do their dirty work?"

Ragai made a disgusted sound. "Now we're all talking in circles like fucking Imperials. Let us resolve this in the way of true Ra Gada: sword-dancing."

_Finally._ Irkand drew his katana, taken from Delphine's basement, and smiled cheerfully. "Come, Kematu, and earn your leadership in the old way – not as a gift from your father's father."

Kematu snorted and drew his scimitar as the other Alik'r moved to make room for them. Only the gods knew what the bandits thought of this little leadership struggle. "You are a tired old man, Irkand. I will give you an honourable burial though."

And then he came at the former Blade, obviously using the Red Surge that was the gods' gift to the Ra Gada.

Akaviri forms with names like Hawk Flares His Wings met Yokudan strokes like Third Aberrant Left-Hand Swing. Irkand danced as he always had, a death-dealer clutching at moments of life like Hawk Reaches for Mouse while Kematu was a true son of the sea and sand with movements like Cyrus' Fifth Lunge in Two Heartbeats.

Delphine's innovative form Waves on Northpoint Shore sliced away a chunk of Kematu's robes while Fourth World-Cutting Slice gashed Irkand's forehead, making him bleed into his eyes. Closing them against the trickle of blood, Irkand switched to the blind-fighting techniques like Bat Hunts for Moths and Mole Raises His Head as Kematu's breath became laboured, having spent the gift of the gods too soon. But he still kept up the attack with a precisely executed lunge that tore through Irkand's own robes – probably Triple-Heartbeat Orc-Skewer, knowing the Crown's preference for point-work.

Irkand waited patiently and let the younger, less experienced warrior wear himself out and the bleeding cut on his forehead scab over before opening his eyes to deliver an execution cut. Not wanting to dishonour even Kematu, he chose to deliver the classic Blades lunge that was named Redguard Takes the Governor's Heart in honour of Cyrus' victory over Richton, earning the respect of the Emperor himself.

The Ra Gada called it 'Hunding's Heartbreak'.

Either way, Irkand's katana pierced Kematu's heart before the Crown could react with his scimitar, and the older warrior bore the younger to the ground where his head touched the edge of the water.

"Go with Tu'whacca," Irkand murmured as the last breath escaped in a bloody froth from Kematu's lips.

Then he rose to his feet, relinquishing his grip on the katana, as Kematu's corpse slowly slid into the water.

"We are the Alik'r, descendants of Yokuda-That-Was, children in spirit of the Ansei, the Saints of the Sword. I am also descended from the Akaviri Dragonguard, descendants of the warriors who hunted them to nigh-extinction. The foremother of my father's clan was Aurelia Northstar, She who became the Madgoddess. In my body flows the blood of dragon-killers – for is not one of the requirements of membership in the Alik'r descent from Cyrus, he who slew Nafaalilargus? Akatosh seems to agree that I will make an excellent killer of Alduin World-Eater."

Irkand closed his eyes and assumed the meditative form called the Dragon Looks Inward. He was truly uncomfortable with the Voice but was projecting the Thu'um via a Shout any different to calling forth inner essence to forge a Shehai? He guessed he was about to find out.

It was different from conjuring a bound sword, which was essentially just a minor Oblivion spirit given temporary form. Every Shehai was unique to its wielder, the ultimate expression of what it was to be Ra Gada. The Ansei were dead but some of the Shehai Shen She Ru, the Way of the Spirit Sword, lingered in the ways of the Alik'r warriors.

But not since the time of Cyrus had someone truly forged a Shehai, a Spirit Sword, that was worthy of the name.

The Thu'um built up inside of him, begging to be released, and Irkand clamped down on his lips as Feim and Krii fought to escape. Instead he turned his reflection inward to discussions between his father Arius and Esbern the Loremaster over the meanings of Dovahzul; sometimes Wulfgar, the Blades' senior Tongue Militant, would join in though he was uncomfortable with using the Dragonish language so… casually.

"Rahun sil zahkrii," he finally breathed, mentally twisting the Thu'um into a form he was comfortable with: an elegant katana, a curled dragon worked into its pommel, which glowed blue-white like the magic of the winds themselves. "Saint soul sword."

And it manifested, solid and a little cold, into his right hand.

Irkand opened his eyes to meet the astonished gazes of his fellow Alik'r. "I may be Dragonborn, but I am a son of sand and sea first. Does it matter how the Shehai manifests, only that it does?"

Not even the most diehard Crown answered negatively. Instead Irkand was met with the touching of lips and heart to signify their acceptance of his leadership.

"Let us prepare then, my sword-brothers. We have the heads of goldskins and traitors to take."


	13. The Itty-Bitty Dragon

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Playing around with the main quest (as always) because I think Teyfunvahzah and Oleg would be bros for life.

…

**The Itty-Bitty Dragon**

To say that Delphine was pissed was like saying the return of Alduin was a bit inconvenient. She preferred to describe her anger as incandescent, to borrow a favourite word of her father's, when she discovered that not only had she lost a Dragonborn, she'd been well and truly played by that bastard Ulfric. Delphine had _trusted_ the Stormcloak and he'd screwed her over – and by extension, also screwed the Dragonborn over. Now she was forced to sit on her arse in the Vilemeyr Inn, a sadly inferior establishment to her own Sleeping Giant, and wait for someone who presumably was the Dragonborn. The only clue she had to go on was possibly golden eyes with slit pupils just like Irkand had when he absorbed the dragon's soul just outside Ustengrav.

The door opened to reveal four Norcs and an Orcish woman. "-And then the dragon said to the Dragonborn, 'That wasn't my tail you grabbed'," laughed a skinny-looking male Norc in fine orichalcum-studded leathers, a lute strapped to his back.

His compatriots snickered or rolled their eyes. The Nord-dominant woman, who wore simple but well-made fur armour, chuckled richly and observed, "Just because _you_ have perverted fantasies doesn't mean the rest of us do."

"Tolal, you wound me," said the skinny Norc melodramatically. Delphine had to admit he had the voice to be a bard unlike Lurbuk in Morthal.

"I'll do more than that if you tell jokes like that in front of the Greybeards," retorted the woman Delphine now recognised as an apprentice mage who'd stopped in at Riverwood and argued with Ulfric.

"Cousin, are you sure you don't want us to accompany you?" asked the rangy Norc who wore his orichalcum plate comfortably. "Oleg's not the most reliable companion."

Oleg responded with a raised middle finger as Tolal snorted. "He's nearly as good at survival as me," she told him. "Besides, you and Gorek would be wise to return home and pick your father's brains on practical politics before you fight it out for the chieftainship."

"Stop by the Hold on the way to the College," the still-nameless Norc urged as Delphine eavesdropped shamelessly. If she was reading the cues right, the female Norc was the Dragonborn – interesting, but who was she to gainsay Akatosh – which made her kin to Hrafn Foe-Reaper. She was darker than normal for the folk of Half-Moon Hold, almost olive-bronze in the dim firelight.

"I will. Take care of Esbern. He's too precious to die at the moment."

_Esbern's alive!_ Delphine felt a heavy weight slide from her shoulders. The loremaster would know how to handle Alduin. And while she would have liked to keep the Greybeards out of it, it was a good thing _this_ Dragonborn had already been accepted into their little cult.

"Malacath go with you, wisewoman," growled the Orcish woman quietly as Tolal clasped forearms with her kin.

"And you. May Kaan send you fresh prey." Tolal smiled at the woman and nodded before turning away.

"Try not to kill each other," Oleg was advising his brothers. "I hear Mauhulakh's getting on and if we controlled Gloombound Mine…"

"You think like an Imperial, brother," one of them chided affectionately. "Malacath might tolerate Arakh at Largashbur, but he'll not appreciate us trying to rule all the strongholds in Skyrim."

"I would miss the pair of you," Oleg countered. "I know it is the way of Malacath for sons to fight and then the winner to challenge the father, but…"

"I know. Besides, Gorek and I have reached an agreement. To third blood and the loser must bring home a Nord wife," the one who wasn't Gorek assured him. "The Nord blood's running a little thin and we could stand to strengthen it."

"Thank Malacath and Talos, Saibash," Oleg answered fervently.

Tolal smiled. "I'm glad to see I'll have all my cousins."

"We'll wait for the challenge for your return from High Hrothgar," Gorek told her. "I'm sure you'd like to see Father one last time."

"I would." Tolal's smile turned a little sad. "If his health doesn't permit it though, give him a good sword-death. The Foe-Reaper doesn't deserve the straw-death."

"Of course, kinswoman." Saibash inclined his head, smile a little melancholy. "Be careful, both of you. If you go sliding down a dragon's throat, Alduin will eat the rest of us."

The Norc duo and their Orcish friend left, presumably to catch the carriage to Half-Moon Hold, as Delphine struggled to conceal her excitement. She knew who the other Dragonborn was!

Tolal walked over and paid for two beds – or, knowing the quality of this inn, more likely two bedrolls – and enough food and drink to feed a dragon and then drown him. Willem accepted her mixture of coin and meat with glee, hauling up a small keg of Honningbrew Mead he probably kept hidden from Maven Black-Briar's goons. Soon the Dragonborn and her cousin were seated at a table, eating and drinking merrily.

Delphine itched to approach them but wasn't sure how they'd take it. She'd bet Oleg knew what a katana looked like but Tolal might take it poorly if someone tried to manipulate her. Judging by the horn tied to her belt, she'd gotten it from Ulfric somehow.

_I'll follow them up the mountain,_ she decided as she sat back and ate her bowl of vegetable soup. Once she could get Tolal alone, she could explain a few things before the Greybeards screwed her up even more…

…

Much to Tolal's surprise, the Norcs had been greatly interested in the Clever Craft – especially Oleg and Ugor, both of whom hunted. It had been good to lose the mage robes and wear furs again, returning to the hard but simple life of a hunter, even if it was in the unfamiliar aspen forests of the Rift and the volcanic tundra that comprised southern Eastmarch. Ugor had taught her how to track venison properly in the soft dark earth instead of relying on footprints in the snow and it seemed Oleg was an adept archer, much to his wry chagrin and sturdier brothers' amusement. She'd need to get a crossbow as soon as possible because Oleg had put a charging troll down with one quarrel.

So when the fine-boned Breton tried to follow them up the mountain path she'd cleared on the way through last time, all she found was windblown snow, for the combed pelts of goats made for an excellent way to conceal her tracks. It was a trick that Oleg had picked up from a friend at the Bards' College.

Now she was inside the great hall of High Hrothgar once more, presenting the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller to Arngeir with an explanation of how she got her hands on it. The Greybeard looked ready to rip Ulfric a new one and actually raised his Voice when Oleg informed him that the Breton following them was a Blade. Then he took a deep breath and apologised for his intemperance.

"I use worse language when I miss a shot," Tolal told him wryly. "I'm actually due to return to Winterhold. The Arch-Mage should know about this."

Arngeir's expression was positively vinegary. "The mages dabble in blasphemy," he warned.

"To be technical, I'm an apprentice there," she pointed out with a sigh. "Enchantment with a bit of alchemy, Destruction and Alteration."

The Greybeard sighed as his brethren filed in. "At least you heed our guidance. I have heard echoes of another Voice that might too be Dragonborn yet that one hasn't answered our summons."

Oleg and Tolal exchanged glances. "Akatosh is really keen on keeping this world going," the Norc Bard noted.

"Perhaps you are correct," Arngeir agreed.

Tolal smiled reassuringly at the holy man. "I worship Shor and Kyne with lip service paid to Malacath, Hircine and Talos," she assured him. "Perhaps Akatosh chose me to be Dragonborn because I'm a responsible hunter. If a dragon's wise enough to leave me alone, I leave them alone."

There was a flicker of relief in the old man's gaze. "Thank you. And I know that you only Speak – for the most part – in true need."

"Hey, that time in Riften was in true need – I had to get the Thieves' Guild's help and needed to prove I was Dragonborn," Tolal insisted.

One of the other Greybeards – Wulfgar, if she recalled correctly – chuckled richly and sketched a hand-signal to Arngeir that made the senior cleric raise an eyebrow. "Master Wulfgar tells me to tell you that sounds like something your grandfather would have said," he translated a little sourly. "Before he came to the Greybeards, Master Wulfgar had been a Blade."

Hrafn had been terse about the Imperial/Redguard side of her family, simply stating that the Aurelii had been a Blades clan descended from Akaviri more or less wiped out in the purge, but he had been respectful about Arius. _"Good man, just the wrong Grand Master at the worst time,"_ the Foe-Reaper said.

Esbern had sadly agreed. _"Arius had been a loremaster whereas his father Julius Martin Aurelius had been an extremely adept general and his grandmother was the Hero of Kvatch," _the loremaster had explained. _"A good man and fine scholar, but not the Grand Master the Blades needed."_

"From what my uncle Hrafn and Loremaster Esbern told me, Arius would have been quite happy to discuss philosophy with the Greybeards," Tolal answered carefully. "He was a good man, just a Grand Master the Blades didn't appreciate at the time."

Wulfgar nodded in sad agreement as Arngeir sighed. "You are working with the Blades then?"

"Only Esbern. He knows more about dragons than anyone else other than you, Master Arngeir, and it was a Blade who wrote the Prophecy of the Dragonborn." Tolal's smile was a little sad, a little grim. "Alduin started this battle at Helgen. He's the only dragon I'll hunt in earnest. If the rest stay out of my way and don't hurt people, I'll leave them alone."

"Bex!"

The double-door to the courtyard where she'd learned Whirlwind Sprint opened to reveal… a dragon. An itty-bitty one with cream-white scales that watched them with intelligent ice-blue eyes. "Drem Yol Lok?" he rumbled gently.

"Uh…" Both Tolal and Oleg were lost for words.

"Drem Yol Lok is a greeting between dragons. It means 'Peace Fire Sky'. Teyfunvahzah means you no ill will." Arngeir's voice was remarkably steady albeit tinged with surprise.

"Drem Yol Lok," Tolal greeted in answer.

Teyfunvahzah wandered into the hall. Up close, he was about half the size of a typical dragon. Maybe he was a baby dragon or something.

"Greetings, Dovahkiin. I am Teyfunvahzah – my name in the Nordic means 'Tale Told True'."

"Dragon names are Shouts?" Tolal asked carefully.

"Geh!" Tey practically bounced up and down with joy. "I am a… skald? Loremaster? I am a dovah, but I am not a hunter. Well, unless it's deer. I like deer."

"A draconic bard. Master Viarmo will want to make him the College's mascot." Oleg's voice was awed.

"Drem Yol Lok," Tolal repeated with greater enthusiasm. No wonder the little dragon was hiding here if he didn't want to cause trouble. "I am Tolal."

"Your name means 'honey' in our tongue," Tey told her cheerfully. "It is a good one, though we need to find your dovah name."

"Not a damned word about my name, Oleg," Tolal warned her cousin as the male Norc began to grin.

"What's it worth to you, oh mighty Dragonborn?" the bard retorted.

"I don't tell the Greybeards your joke about me and the dragon's tail."

The Norc actually looked embarrassed as Arngeir raised an eyebrow. "Just a dirty joke to pass the time," he confessed awkwardly to the Greybeard as Tey actually snickered.

"Ahrk Zu'u saag wah faal Dovahkiin, 'Tol ni dii wahrok'," he said cheerfully in Dovahzul.

Wulfgar grinned as Arngeir actually cringed. "Allow us to greet you as Dragonborn," he told Tolal desperately as Oleg and Tey roared with laughter. Great, now she had _two_ smartarses to deal with.

"If it shuts these two up, sure," she agreed.

Soon enough Oleg and Tey were shunted to the side as Tolal stood in between the Greybeards. "Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok."

The very bones of the earth rumbled at the triumphant announcement, one that even Alduin and this theoretical other Dragonborn wouldn't miss. Tolal imagined Eirik pausing in his drinking to go, "Huh?" But she passed through unscathed, feeling another truth settle deep into her bones.

_You want a fight, Alduin? Well bring it. I'll hunt you down and use your scaly hide to wipe my arse._

And all within Skyrim heard. One person, in particular, knew enough to be frightened. So he strode into the Hall of the Elements to study the Eye of Magnus, determined to free mortal life and the gods themselves from the chains of flesh.


	14. A Harbinger of Things to Come

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Bringing back another character who didn't get a lot of screen time in the last Aureliiverse. I have a particular HC that Altmer develop intellectually faster than physically because of their affinity for magic. Trigger warning for mentions of animal cruelty and painful execution.

…

**A Harbinger of Things to Come**

"Uh, Harbinger? They're all dead."

Irkand's fingers tightened around the hilt of his Shehai katana as some Nord wandered into Swindler's Den. The bandits hadn't known what hit them as Irkand's first order as leader was to purge the scum. He was a sometime assassin with a talent for execution but he had his standards and bandits tended to fail most of them.

"Scimitars," said a woman's voice authoritatively. "Looks like we know where the Alik'r were hiding."

"_Are_ hiding," corrected another woman's voice, oddly familiar. It had the slightly haughty tones of an Altmer but sounded… coarser, Irkand supposed. "I can smell them."

Irkand emerged into the light of a flickering torch to see three warriors: two Nords and an Altmer. All were in the prime of their life, skins laced with scars and eyes hard like experienced veterans, and the mer carried a truly _massive_ ebony battle-axe etched with the face of a screaming elf. There had to be issues involved.

Her marigold eyes swung his way before widening. "…Irkand? Irkand Aurelius?"

"You have the advantage of me," he answered, not bothering to deny his identity. The Altmer possibly knew him in the Great War.

The female mer's smile was sour. "I'm not surprised you've forgotten me. I'd was still a child when the Great War begun and Mother withdrew to Pale Pass."

"Harbinger?" the male Nord, massive even for one of his kind, asked uncertainly.

"Stand down, Aela and Farkas. This man is Aurelii… or was. Just like me."

"Gold-Lily?" Irkand asked unsurely. Raised within the Blades, he'd known little of the female side of the Aurelii, which was ruled by the Altmer Aurelia Swan-Neck.

"Celende is my Altmer name and it's the one I live under," the mer answered as her friends sheathed their weapons. Irkand's inner dragon rumbled, knowing he was facing three predators.

"I didn't know anyone survived Pale Pass," he admitted as the twelve remaining Alik'r emerged from the deeper cave.

"Commander?" asked Sudrith calmly.

"Stand down. I suspect these are mercenaries hired to take out the thugs."

"They're not just mercenaries. They're Companions of Jorrvaskr," Tammas corrected quietly. "The Heirs of Ysgramor. Sort of like if the Fighters' Guild and the Alik'r had Nord babies."

Celende grinned darkly. "Or mer, in my case."

Irkand raised his hands, dispelling his Shehai. "I have no quarrel with you and we're actually leaving Whiterun Hold for now."

"You put us in a fucking awkward situation," Celende observed wryly. "You've got a five hundred septim bounty on your head, kinsman."

"You never _did_ get around to telling us how you managed that," Ragai noted dryly.

"How did you survive Pale Pass?" Irkand asked Celende, holding up a hand for the Alik'r to be silent. He wasn't Aurelii, not anymore, but it eased his heart to know that someone from the clan was alive.

"The Thalmor," Celende admitted disgustedly. "Thought I was too young at twenty to recall what happened to my mother. I waited until I was of age – about two years ago – and came to Skyrim to prepare for the next battle against them."

"Appropriate, seeing as I think your father was Nord," Irkand agreed with a sigh. "Sudrith, do we have the coin to pay off my bounty? Not that I'm bothered by it, but it's going to be bloody hindering awkward to kill dragons and Thalmor if Balgruuf keeps on sending mercenaries after me."

"We do, but… forgive me… how can you be related to an Altmer?" The Forebear lieutenant sounded confused.

"Imperial clans rely on descent through the father to track things like inheritance," Celende answered before Irkand could. "During the reign of the Akaviri Potentates, a very clever Akaviri clan took wives from the races of men and mer, knowing that one's race ran through maternal ancestry. They became the Aurelii, the Golden Ones, for that first marriage was between General Takeshi and my mother's mother Talithra. My mother Ralinde was the favourite mistress of Talos and I… I am the first Altmer Harbinger, the counsellor of the Companions. My axe is Ysgramor's Wuuthrad, the Storm's Tears, and I will cut a swathe through the Thalmor until the shores of Alinor are stained with blood."

Irkand and Sudrith exchanged glances that said the same thing: _"This girl had issues."_

"I buried everyone at Cloud Ruler and Pale Pass," Irkand told her while the Alik'r and Companions stared at each other.

"Thank you." Celende sighed, rubbing her nose. "I have no idea how you managed to make several goats, chickens and a cow explode, kinsman, but you've caused more than just property damage. You've deprived Clan Grey-Mane and several families of critical livestock to tide them over winter. I know that means little to the Alik'r but… well… things will be lean this winter, especially with the dragons devouring anything that moves."

"I already said I'll pay the bounty," Irkand told her. "What more do you want?"

The Altmer regarded him queerly and Irkand, for a moment, fancied he saw a hungry wolf staring at him. "I don't expect you to understand. If you'll come with me to Whiterun, we can pay your bounty and you can go do whatever the fuck you're doing in Skyrim."

For a mer who was wielding the axe that had slain thousands of her kind, Celende was being very judgmental. But she was no Thalmor and from what Irkand had heard of the Companions, they were not the sort to cross. Yet he wouldn't obey some jumped-up mercenary. "Take the coin from Sudrith and deliver it yourself. My duties leave no time to cater to the ego of a jumped-up petty king."

"If I was a huscarl of Balgruuf's, you'd be spitting blood," Celende responded serenely and for a moment Irkand saw her mother in those aquiline features despite the violence of her words. "You must appear in person or the bounty won't be considered paid. It shows you're sorry for what you did."

"But I'm not. Iman al-Suda – who you knew as Saadia – was a traitor," Irkand countered. "I've no doubt that she's now undergoing an appropriate execution and regret only I wasn't the one to perform it."

"Charming," Aela noted. "We can't force you to appear. But if you want the bounty cleared, you'll need to deal with the Jarl directly."

"I tried doing that and he ordered me from Dragonsreach," Irkand retorted, beginning to get irritated. Why were these fools questioning a dovah?

"You demanded the right to drag a productive citizen of Whiterun from the city in chains without the Jarl passing judgment," Aela pointed out.

"Shame I couldn't have coughed up the gold to overcome Balgruuf's sensibilities or fellate him enough to see it done," Irkand responded dryly.

"I'm beginning to see why your friends were thrown out of Whiterun and one lingers still in the dungeons," Celende said sardonically. "I've told you what you have to do, kinsman. If you want to skulk around in bandit camps for the rest of your time in Skyrim, be my guest."

The Harbinger turned around and walked towards the cleft which led to the outside, her friends following her. Irkand gestured at the Alik'r to let them go – he had no desire for battle with a fellow Aurelii for all she was alien to him.

"The Companions have a lot of influence in Skyrim," Tammas said softly once they were gone. "And as Harbinger, Celende is the arbiter of honour for the entire province."

"The Alik'r do not deal in honour, we deal in results," Irkand answered firmly. "Now let us leave this place and retreat to Falkreath. We have a base to establish."

…

Celende left Wuuthrad at the door in respect for Jarl Balgruuf's hospitality. As someone who'd lived under the man's prosperous rule, she'd almost been ready to shed blood for the insult done to him by the Alik'r. But Irkand was kinsman… and he was also Dragonborn, albeit one perilously close to being overwhelmed by his draconic nature.

"The bandits were already dead. It seemed the Alik'r were tired of sharing quarters with them and killed them," she told the Jarl tersely. "And I can confirm the rumours of a second Dragonborn. He's the one who decorated Whiterun in livestock guts and took Saadia, who he claims was a traitor."

Balgruuf nodded grimly. "Well done, Harbinger. I will pay the appropriate bounty-"

"I didn't do the job and I let the Alik'r leave unmolested." At the Jarl's raised eyebrow, she pursed her lips. "They have Aurelii training. And their leader was once a Blade."

"And he is the Dragonborn." Balgruuf was no fool.

"Aye, he is."

"Take the bounty for the information," Balgruuf urged.

"I'm not some spy who'll trade gossip for coin," Celende responded calmly. She knew the man meant well but Kodlak had been firm on the meaning of honour – and acting as spies, however necessary, wasn't honourable.

"Would you carry a message for me then?" Balgruuf asked, eyes shrewd. She knew that he knew the Circle were werewolves.

"You need Tolal here." Celende tilted her head. "I should tell you, though she likely doesn't know it, that I suspect she's Irkand's niece. My mother often said the dragon blood ran strong in particular families."

_And Mother told me more as the Thalmor came closer to the hidden camp,_ she thought grimly. She'd lied to Irkand about being raised by the bastards in black and gold; it had been Skjor and Kodlak who found a traumatised Altmer child and brought her to Jorrvaskr. In the years that followed, she had trained herself to be a living weapon against the Thalmor, their nightmare made flesh. She had embraced the beast blood and her Shield-Sister Aela with equal fervour, though the past few months had been hard on the pack with Skjor and Kodlak's deaths, and the twins' wish to be cured of the beast blood. She'd obliged them, though her heart broke, and now they seemed happier.

"There's no suspicion about it," Aela said calmly. "I smelt the kinship."

"I'll not force Tolal to fight kin… but I fear this Dragonborn who is playing his own game," Balgruuf said flatly. "I need you and Aela to bring Tolal here before she returns to Winterhold. She must know about this second Dragonborn and I need an update on what's happening with the fight against Alduin."

"I can do that," Celende agreed. "We should also keep track of what the Stormcloaks are doing. Somehow I don't think Ulfric would be amused to discover that the Harbinger is an Altmer, even if she's three-quarters human and half-Nord."

"Heh, though his reaction would be amusing." Balgruuf rubbed his temples. Being the one sane man in Skyrim had to be hard for him. "I'd feel easier if we could arrange a truce until Alduin is dealt with. Tullius and Ulfric would squabble over a bedroom while the whole house burns."

Aela glanced at Celende significantly. "The Harbinger could certainly call for one, Jarl Balgruuf. And honestly, we'd feel easier too."

"Good! Good…" The Jarl's expression was troubled and Celende couldn't fault him. She felt the burden of deciding what was honourable and not for the Companions when she'd never asked for the duty. But she couldn't defy Kodlak's last wish.

She was just a child, barely twenty, when Cloud Ruler and Pale Pass fell. But she still recalled Irkand, already a killer and completely close-minded to anything outside what he perceived as his mission. His comment about depriving Whiterun of their livestock displayed his lack of understanding.

_I should warn Legate Fasendil,_ she thought grimly. While the Companions were politically neutral, Celende had a good relationship with the Altmer Legion officer and already had plans to extract him to Jorrvaskr if the Stormcloaks found the Imperial camp in the Rift.

Balgruuf buried his face in his hands, unafraid to show vulnerability in front of three Circle members. "Damn Ulfric and damn the Empire. Both of them are fools."

"If Ulfric had half a brain, he'd contact the Tamusen, the Altmer resistance, and the Renrijra Krin of the Khajiit," Celende agreed softly. "The Dominion _will_ come again and I – and others – will be ready for them."

"You know, there's something a little wrong about you being so eager to wield Wuuthrad against the Thalmor," Balgruuf noted, casting an uneasily wry glance on the battleaxe strapped to her back. Celende had heard similar comments, even amongst the Companions, and understood intellectually that they were right to be concerned.

"You're probably right," she answered with a crooked smile. "But my mother's death was even harder than your father and brother's, Jarl Balgruuf, because she had dared to be Talos' concubine and a half-human Altmer."

_And to try and fight the bastards as they rose to power. Rynandor the Bold did us no favours by dragging the Aurelii into the battle and by extension the Blades._ What Ralinde hadn't taught her in the months before she died, perhaps knowing her ultimate fate, Fasendil had filled her in on during her adolescence training with the hardened Altmer warrior. Kodlak and Skjor, both veterans of the Great War, had been quietly alarmed and though the Companions didn't really know it, they were being trained in particular to fight magic-wielding enemies.

Balgruuf, whose father Balgruuf the Lesser and brother Istgeir had been crucified and set alight with witch-fire, blanched. "Forgive me, Harbinger-"

"I'm fucked up," Celende interrupted, her tone too cheerful. "Profoundly so. I deliberately chose Hircine over Sovngarde or Heaven's Reach or wherever the fuck someone like me would go because Pale Pass taught me one thing: we're all animals beneath the skin. I've been predator and I've been prey, Jarl Balgruuf. But I intend to show the Thalmor that they know _nothing_ of nightmares until they cross me in battle."

Balgruuf nodded in grim satisfaction. He had a remarkable tolerance for Daedric cults so long as no one who was part of Whiterun was harmed and trade wasn't hampered. If it wasn't for the political climate, he'd have allowed the small Dunmer population to raise a shrine to the Three Good Daedra. "I may have a mission for you in that regards, though I want Tolal back here before you're sent on it."

_He's taking direct action against the Thalmor-_ "So the rumour of what happened to Thorald is true," Celende said aloud. "The Companions will do it for free."

"Indeed," Balgruuf confirmed grimly. "I'll not stand for them taking my people but I cannot move against openly. Not yet."

"Whereas if the Companions do so, we're simply rescuing the son of a comrade." Celende smiled, feeling her wolf quiver at the thought of a hunt. "You should be High King, Balgruuf."

The Jarl snorted. "Who would follow the gold-hungry Jarl, the one who sits on his throne and counts tithes while others fight and bleed for their homeland? Olava has told me whoever wins Whiterun will win the war… but I would see the dragons dealt with before I enter it."

"Which makes finding Tolal critical." Celende rolled her shoulders. "I'll set out tonight."

"Safe journey to both of you. I'll have Irileth change the guard patrols to avoid awkwardness."

Celende winced inwardly as she recalled her embrace of the beast blood. It had been… awkward… to kill a guard and most of her bounties for the next year went to paying off the life-debt. Now when she needed to kill, she simply shifted and went roaming for bandits.

"Thanks," she said aloud as she nodded. "May the gods watch over your battles."

"And yours, Harbinger."

Celende turned away, Aela and Farkas at her back as true Shield-Siblings, and she smiled grimly. Her mother had been prey… but she was a predator. As the Thalmor would learn in time.


	15. Necessity is Grim

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Hrafn's death will be off-camera because I can't kill him directly. :(

…

**Necessity is Grim**

"Father, Tolal asked me to tell you not to shoot the little dragon that's about to land in our courtyard," Oleg informed Hrafn the Foe-Reaper as the now-visibly ill man lounged in his favourite chair. "His name is Teyfunvahzah, 'Tale-Told-True', and he's the draconic equivalent of a bard who's sworn allegiance to her."

If there was any dragon known to the Blades that Esbern wouldn't urge Tolal to kill immediately, it would be Teyfunvahzah. The Annals of the Dragonguard had it that while Paarthunax had been the one to give mankind the knowledge of the Thu'um at Kynareth's behest, it had been Teyfunvahzah who persuaded him – and who'd apparently never attacked a human unless in self-defence. And if the dragon had actually become a liegecreature, then he already knew that Tolal would shut him down.

"Fair enough. Dragon on the ground's more vulnerable so if he tries anything…" Hrafn smiled grimly and then coughed. "Good to see one up close before I go home to Malacath."

The Tolal who strode into the Great Hall was much more comfortable with herself than the one who'd saved him from the Thalmor and Esbern couldn't be prouder of her. She didn't know it but there was much of Julius Martin in her, a man that Esbern barely recalled from his own youth in the Blades. Arius had been a loremaster but Julius had been a mage like his father, able to extend his lifespan by a mixture of Alteration and Restoration until a Thalmor blade cut him down in his prime. No wonder Arius had struggled under such a burden…

"You look like shit," she told her uncle bluntly, though not without sympathy.

Hrafn smiled weakly. "I was waiting for the boys to come back."

"Well, Largashbur made Arakh their chieftain, so he won't be a pain in your arse. Gorek and Saibash are back with Ugor gra-Largashbur as the winner's first wife." Tolal's voice was a little sad but matter-of-fact.

"Good job." Hrafn struggled to his feet, waving off his second wife's impulse to help. "The College sent two of your fellow apprentices here: Onmund and Brelyna. And Balgruuf has a message for you too."

"Shit." Tolal sighed, rubbing her temples. "Do you know why?"

"No. But they did say they know you're Dragonborn and wouldn't be bothering you if shit wasn't critical at Winterhold." The Foe-Reaper's expression was grim. "The messenger is the Harbinger herself and damn if Ysgramor isn't spinning in his grave."

"The Altmer, right? Celide?" That could be the only member of the Circle, who Tolal only recalled because she was a goldskin, who'd elicit such a reaction from the legendary hero.

"Celende." Hrafn's lips quirked upwards as Esbern sighed. He could sense the touch of Hircine upon his only daughter, born of a brief relationship between him and Ralinde, but who was he to say anything? Celende had forged her own path and was dedicated to taking out the Thalmor.

"Bring everyone together, please. If there's going to be a clusterfuck or three, we might as well all share the bad news." Tolal glanced at Esbern and smiled wearily. "You'll love Tey, old man. Dragons can look back in time and he's happy to tell you whatever you need to know about Alduin."

"I'll abide by your decision involving individual dragons, but the Blades aren't supposed to 'love dragons'," Esbern told her gently. "If Delphine were alive-"

"Small even by Breton standards, wields a dai-katana?" Oleg interrupted.

"She's alive?"

"She tried to follow us up to High Hrothgar. Yeah right." The bard snickered. "I'm not half-bad at wilderness survival and Tolal, of course, is the master so we managed to lose her."

Esbern winced. Delphine still showed her lack of tact after all these years. It was almost bad enough knowing that Irkand was alive and apparently Dragonborn too – according to Celende – but if those two joined forces-

"Delphine will want Tey dead," he answered grimly. "She's very… fervent."

"If a dragon is stupid enough to attack me, it dies," Tolal answered. "But if they're just sitting on mountains and leaving me alone, I have no quarrel with them."

The Dragonborn jerked her chin at the double-door. "We all might as well go outside."

Outside was chilly from late Heartfire evening, a cream-white dragon the size of a large carthorse sitting calmly in the courtyard as two of Hrafn's younger children tried to climb him. "Drem Yol Lok," he greeted genially – an invocation of peace. Esbern sighed and accepted that he'd be breaking his oath as a Blade today.

Onmund was a Nord – with a name like that, what else could he be? – and Brelyna a Dunmer of exceptionally good breeding. "Tolal, thank Azura you're alive!" the latter said. "We'd thought Ancano had killed you and then when word got back you were Dragonborn-"

"I'm sorry I was gone so long," she apologised with a sigh. "One thing followed another-"

"Alduin is important but Winterhold's got a crisis," Onmund reported grimly. "You know the Eye of Magnus?"

Tolal froze before nodding grimly. "The Psijic Order warned me it was bad news but with the dragons, I shoved it clean out of my mind. What's going on?"

"Ancano's gotten control of it somehow and… killed Arch-Mage Savos," Brelyna answered softly. "He's blocked us off from the College and we had to evacuate Winterhold to Whistling Mine."

The Dragonborn swore, Esbern echoing her phrase, as Celende, who'd been listening silently behind Tey, rose to her feet. "If this Eye is powerful enough to attract the attention of the Psijic Order, it's powerful enough to cause a lot of damage," the Harbinger reported. "And given the Thalmor's ultimate goal is to destroy the world…"

"Boys, when one of you kills me, please make sure you add a couple Thalmor to honour Malacath," Hrafn said with deadly calm.

"Why does Jarl Balgruuf want me?" Tolal asked Celende bluntly.

"There's a second Dragonborn – your paternal uncle no less – and the Jarl wants to arrange a truce in the Civil War until Alduin's dead." Celende's eyes gleamed ferally. "There's also another reason… but that's quite frankly none of the Norcs' business."

"If Balgruuf has an interest in our cousin, we'd have no problem with him courting her," Gorek said cheerfully, only to earn a glare from Tolal.

"I would make a poor Jarl's wife," she said softly. "Malacath named me wisewoman."

"Wisewomen can marry, kinswoman," Gorek answered. "But… we can't force you. More's the pity, because we need that alliance with Balgruuf and he'd find you fairly attractive."

"Winterhold must be first, Tolal," Onmund said. "If Ancano succeeds-"

"Harbinger, can you come with us? I'll need muscle." Tolal didn't seem fazed about there being another Dragonborn though Esbern was a little perturbed. Irkand Aurelius as the Dragonborn… Gods help them. Delphine would orgasm when she found out. "Esbern, are you up to a sustained fight? Because once Ancano's dealt with, I want you in the College."

"Tey and I are coming," Oleg announced as Celende nodded and Esbern bowed obediently. "If nothing else, our draconic friend can haul you out. You're the most important person in Skyrim, Tolal."

The Dragonborn nodded grimly. "Then be prepared to leave at dawn. I need to rest, Onmund; it was a long trip from Ivarstead."

She stalked towards the sleeping quarters, back stiff with… something. Esbern was torn between admiring her strength of will and wondering how a Dragonborn could lack ambition.

Then he himself went to bed. It would be a long hard trip tomorrow.

…

"Oleg, would you be offended if I told you that you're my sanest relative?" Tolal asked the Norc bard as they saddled up horses for the ride to Winterhold. Every mount had Fortify Stamina and a rejuvenation spell cast on them.

"Well, when you compare me to the werewolf Altmer, the murderous other Dragonborn – if the stories Father told me are true, and my brothers… No, I wouldn't be," Oleg said with a grin.

Then he lost it as he looked over Half-Moon Hold. Hrafn had told them last night that he would be calling for a challenge from the boys while they were gone to 'sort things out'. Tolal was already grieving more than she expected; the Foe-Reaper was a man she'd grown to respect and for Skyrim to lose him would be a terrible blow at a bad time.

"Better a sword-death than a straw-death," she said softly to the bard, who nodded in sad agreement.

"We've made our farewells and now have a duty to the Hold to see Ancano dealt with," Oleg answered. "Let's ride."

They did so, Esbern mounted on Brelyna's horse as Celende and Aela shifted into werewolf form and Tey flew overhead. They had a lot of ground to cover and swiftly before Ancano destroyed the world.

…

"_Dragonborn."_

The world went colourless and Tolal swore softly as an Altmer in the robes of a Psijic monk emerged from the softly falling snow.

"I'm hurrying to Winterhold," she snapped at the goldskin. "What more do you want?"

He blinked massive green-gold eyes at her, clearly startled by the outburst. _"I know,"_ he answered wryly. _"And while I'm flattered at your offer of lovemaking, I fear I'm sworn to chastity."_

"Don't flatter yourself," she retorted, chagrined she'd mispronounced that Orcish phrase _again._ "What do you want?"

_"To warn you. You need to find the Staff of Magnus at Labyrinthian before confronting Ancano."_ The Psijic's expression was grim. _"My seniors would… ah… be displeased for speaking to you so directly, but Ancano _must_ be stopped."_

"I thought you Altmer wanted the world to end."

_"The Psijics teach that great souls transcend mortality, either as Aedra or Daedra,"_ he responded. _"Ancano and the Thalmor would make the world die in despair, which will only condemn millions to Oblivion."_

Tolal couldn't argue with that. "Can you lock Winterhold down? Labyrinthian's near Morthal and-"

_"Look over the hill, Dragonborn. You are almost there."_

As the world turned to colour again, Tolal did so and swore as she saw the ruins of the ancient city. When she turned around to confront the nameless Altmer, he'd vanished.

"We just got transported by the Psijics to find the one weapon which can take down Ancano," Tolal announced as the others swore with equal fluency.

"The Arch-Mage told us that," Brelyna agreed, holding out a heavy iron torc. "I… just didn't make the connection until now."

"Labyrinthian's a bitch of a place," Celende observed professionally as she shifted into human form, Aela following suit. "But trolls are easy enough to deal with. It's the draugr and worse I'm worried about."

Tolal squared her shoulders. "No rest for the wicked."

"Bromjunaar is… not a good place," Tey warned grimly as he landed. "It is… was… the tomb of a Dragon Priest. Morokei, the Glorious One. Second only to Miraak in hubris and… not a good jun."

"Oh, this gets better and better," Oleg said sarcastically. "Let's all be good Nords and Norcs and go rushing to our deaths!"

"Tolal, you'll have to stay outside," Esbern told her. "I'm sorry, but Alduin takes precedence."

Her response was not fit for the Dragonborn addressing the last Blades loremaster. But it made Oleg grin and Celende raise an eyebrow. "I see you have a taste for older men," she drawled. "I know this Altmer Legionnaire who's-"

"I don't fuck go- Altmer," Tolal growled. "And since I'm too important to go dungeon-crawling, so are you, Harbinger."

Celende's response involved the graphic description of a sex act involving two dead salmon, a pitchfork, a frost troll and Morokei. It seemed her tastes were even more exotic than Tolal's supposedly were.

But both had to stay behind with Tey and Esbern while the others risked their lives in Labyrinthian. Necessity was grim indeed… especially as Esbern delivered what he knew of the Prophecy of the Dragonborn and the location of Sky Haven Temple.

Tolal sighed. No rest for the wicked.


	16. A Conditional Alliance

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! In my HC, Ulfric gets out of Windhelm a lot more because Nords don't respect Jarls who sit on their thrones all day. Trigger warning for massacre, a cruel execution and Ulfric being a True Nord.

…

**A Conditional Alliance**

To say that Ulfric was surprised to find Irkand Aurelius, now clad in the red and blue robes of an Alik'r warrior, sitting on his bedroll with a sardonic smile was an overstatement. He knew the Redguard would return on his own terms – but he was a little surprised to see the man in the Reach Stormcloak camp and wanted to know how he'd gotten past the ten sentries and thirty warriors here.

The older man rose to his feet with lithe grace, draconic eyes gleaming wryly. "I apologise for running out on you but I was, ah, startled by me becoming a Dragonborn," he said in that oiled-silk voice.

"I imagine all of us but Delphine were," Ulfric admitted ruefully. He was still… _annoyed_… with Tolal for robbing him blind and had given the Stormcloaks orders to hold her so he could retrieve the Jagged Crown. But Irkand had indicated a willingness to work towards mutual goals, in particular the destruction of the Thalmor, and Ulfric could live with that.

"Neat trick stealing the Horn," Irkand answered with a smirk.

"Your niece stole it from me," Ulfric told him dryly. "That was her being formally recognised by the Dragonborn a few days ago, by the way."

"She'd make a better hero of legend than I," the former Blade observed wryly. "And if the dragons are focused on _her_, then that lets me remain in the shadows where I belong until it is the time to strike."

"I understand," Ulfric said, both to his outward words and the knowledge that Irkand was still terrified of dragons. One of the Stormcloak camps had reported Tolal travelling in the presence of a cousin – probably Oleg the bard – and a dragon – likely Teyfunvahzah, who was said to be Paarthunax's errand boy.

_Fucking Norcs,_ he thought sourly. Hrafn had finally died, run through by his second-eldest son Gorek, and Ulfric had been turned away at the gate by having three orichalcum crossbows pointed at him. It seemed Gorek had… opinions… about Ulfric's so-called racism and attempt to manipulate Tolal.

The Jarl of Windhelm wouldn't attack the Hold just yet. But he intended to starve them into submission by cutting off trade from Whiterun and Riften. It was time to start the war in earnest as Tolal was doing grandly in her battle against Alduin.

"There has been a change of leadership amongst the Alik'r," Irkand continued calmly. "Kematu declared me a traitor to Hammerfell. I ran him through and left him for the dogs."

"I don't know who Kematu was but he obviously deserved his fate." Ulfric walked over to his camp table and poured himself some mead.

"Indeed. I owe him for the deaths of four good Lhotunic men and three Forebears. The Crowns barely redeemed themselves in my eyes by offering allegiance." Irkand smiled thinly. "And they have all agreed to a conditional alliance with the Stormcloaks against the Dominion."

Ulfric paused, his mead halfway to his lips, before breaking into a huge grin. "That is good news! Though… what do you mean by 'conditional'?"

"We won't fight your war for you, Ulfric. If a man would reach for the sweetest date on the palm, he should be strong enough to keep it from the monkeys." Irkand's eyes glittered. "It was that reason why we abandoned the Empire. They won the war – barely – but lacked the strength and decency to repay the Ra Gada's loyalty."

"I will not have my victory handed to me by foreign soldiers – no offence meant."

"None taken. It is… in Hammerfell's interests to have a free Skyrim on our northeastern flank. But not one who would regain the land Talos conquered. The Stormcrown is gone from this world and we'll never see His like again, if the gods are kind."

Ulfric automatically bridled at the slightly negative tone Irkand's oiled-silk voice held but then he reminded himself that the Redguards had been brutally conquered, more so than anyone else other than the Altmer, and even then they'd forced Talos to offer more equitable terms for their inclusion in the Empire. They'd also done what no one else, even Skyrim, had: defeated the Thalmor on their own. "Yet you are Dragonborn," he pointed out instead.

"I am no ruler, even were I young enough to make it viable," the Alik'r countered. "Hammerfell has enough on its plate with the Thalmor at the moment and anything beyond that war is simply speculation."

Trained in the ways of politics, Ulfric let Irkand's words fall into place. Hammerfell intended to invade Cyrodiil at some point in the future, perhaps establish their own Empire. "When you conquer Colovia, I would like to ask for Bruma. It once belonged to the Nords with its own Jarl until Talos changed the border to the Jerall Mountains and included Falkreath in Skyrim."

Irkand's eyes widened before he grinned sardonically. "Give you an inch, take a mile?"

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend," Ulfric pointed out. "I can even guess what the conditional help would be. You will execute any Thalmor you get your hands on."

"And more. Titus Mede II is coming to Skyrim and I would see him dead for Bruma. And Pale Pass." Irkand smiled thinly. "It would be impolite if I didn't invite you and a couple choice men – like that Ralof, for instance – along for the festivities."

"You're leaving Tullius for me." Ulfric would gladly welcome the General dying of misadventure but he already knew that if he wanted the man dead, he'd have to win Solitude. Irkand was obviously keen on making a man earn his victory.

"Well, yes. I wouldn't want to deprive you of all the fun." Irkand's smile was edged.

Ulfric glanced into his flagon. "How soon will Titus Mede II come? I may not be able to come personally – it will depend on the way the war's going, as I'm going to force Balgruuf to make a choice – but I will gladly send Ralof and Avulstein Grey-Mane as… witnesses."

"Within a week. My men have captured a Penitus Oculatus agent and they're questioning him now."

"Kottir!" Ulfric bellowed. The Stormcloak commander appeared instantly, swearing softly when he realised there was a stranger within the camp. "This is Irkand Aurelius-"

"Irkand ibn Farrah," the Redguard corrected mildly. "The Aurelii died at Cloud Ruler."

"-And he is an ally. He'll need pigeons for each camp in Skyrim. The Alik'r are offering limited support against the Empire," Ulfric finished.

"Yes, my Jarl." Kottir vanished as swiftly as he'd appeared, leaving the two old veterans alone.

"You _have_ learned much," Irkand said almost admiringly.

"The less each commander knows, the less can be revealed if they're captured," Ulfric answered with a sigh.

"Indeed." Irkand pursed his lips before tilting his head. "You said you're declaring war on Whiterun?"

"I'm forcing Balgruuf to choose a side," Ulfric corrected. "I also need to starve the Norcs into submission. It seems the new Chief isn't as amenable to alliance as the Foe-Reaper was."

"Hrafn's dead? Damn." Irkand sighed bitterly.

"Your niece has apparently embraced her Norc heritage," Ulfric continued. "I am _trying_ to keep my operations away from her because she is the Dragonborn recognised by the Greybeards. I only hope she is wise to stick to the business of fighting Alduin if she won't take a side."

Irkand nodded slowly. "I remember her as little 'Lia. I hope this war is over and done with soon so that she'll be safe. But until then, the best _I_ can do is eliminate the Thalmor presence."

"When you hit the Embassy, let me know. I want to see Elenwen's face before she dies."

The former Blade smiled slowly. "You'd better saddle up then, Ulfric. We're hitting them on the morrow."

Ulfric allowed himself a cold smile. He couldn't resist the opportunity to see that Thalmor bitch dead.

…

"_FUS RO DAH!"_

The wrought-iron gates of the Thalmor Embassy were torn off their hinges by the force of Ulfric's Shout, the sentries already dead from Irkand breathing Feim to phase through the gate and slit their throats when solid again. This was no infiltration mission but pure bloody murder; it was too late for Titus Mede II to turn back and the attack so close to Solitude would rattle the Legion.

Irkand's inner dovah roared as scarlet stained the snow. The arrogant joorre who'd destroyed his kin would pay dearly this day.

Stormcloaks and Alik'r stormed the Embassy, slaughtering everyone who got in their eyes – he later saw Bosmer and Khajiit bodies in rough servants' clothing – and trapping Elenwen in her solar. Finally she was the only goldskin alive in the building and her enemies came for her.

Still, she put up a credible fight, killing four Stormcloaks and Ragai of the Crowns before Ralof subdued her with a punch to the face. The golden-blond Nord was _very_ good and Irkand mourned he wasn't a Redguard and therefore worthy of the Alik'r.

"You needn't worry about questioning her," Irkand noted as he helped himself to the files, stashing all but Ulfric's into a satchel. He'd give that one to the man to show how the Thalmor had manipulated him. "I have all the information I need."

That didn't stop Ulfric and his people giving the Redguards a demonstration of the Nord blood-eagle. It turned out that Ralof knew Heal Others and gladly used it on the Thalmor bitch as her ribcage was opened and spread out, allowing the lungs to expand like… well… bloody wings he supposed. Elenwen survived the entire experience until Ulfric pulled out an iron dagger and a black soul gem. The Redguard looked away, astonishingly sickened by the use of Soul Trap on a sapient being. Since the death of Prince A'Tor, necromancy had been abhorred by the Ra Gada, and black soul gems, filled or not, in a person's possession meant an automatic execution.

He went out into the clean air and inhaled it, scenting smoke from the chimneys of Solitude. The Alik'r had silenced all city guard patrols between here and Dragon Bridge to give them the best chance of success.

"Your political strategy is sound, brother, but I must question your choice of candidates." Sudrith, now his second, joined him to overlook the port city. "I'm not saying that Elenwen is undeserving of her fate, but…"

"I know what you mean," Irkand agreed with a sigh. "But there is no other choice."

"…Perhaps not at the moment. But the wind of time is fickle and may change at any moment, especially in Whiterun." Sudrith, the son of a sailor, shaded his eyes with a hand as he peered out into Solitude Harbour. "Looks like a few ships are coming in."

"Your eyes are better than mine," Irkand said quietly. "Does one of them have a red-and-blue sail with a Dunmer figurehead?"

Sudrith cast Sailor's Eye, a Forebear sailor's spell, and nodded quietly. "Yes, it does. The one in the middle."

Irkand smiled coldly. "It seems Titus Mede II has come to Skyrim."

…

Quaranir let the scrying spell fade. Years of study had taught him the languages of men and mer, though Khajiit was still giving him trouble, and so he'd understood everything this _other_ Dragonborn had said.

He bunched up the fabric of the world and strode along an earthbone to reach a very unhappy Dragonborn on night watch. Her companions slept, having wearied themselves in Labyrinthian, and Tolal's hand ran gently over the Staff of Magnus before she shook her head and drew it away.

"You hold power yet relinquish it easily," he observed softly as the colour leached from the world into the half-twilight state between Nirn and Aetherius.

"Power is a yoke across the shoulders. Sometimes it helps you to carry the burdens but eventually it grows too heavy and you have to put it down." The Norc (an interesting hybrid culture that was slowly becoming a race unto itself much like the Bretons had) looked up at him with eyes the colour of the tropical seas around Alinor. "Can you do the teleport trick and get us to Winterhold or is that… too direct an intervention?"

"I'm not sure," Quaranir confessed, compelled to be honest with the woman after her astute observation on the nature of power. "The earthbones around Winterhold are… warped. I cannot read what's going on there and the influence grows hourly."

"I'm sorry for breaking that seal," she answered softly. "It would be a shame to lose the College. It's the last centre of learning in Tamriel that isn't caught up in Dominion or Imperial politics."

"Agreed. Several Psijics had studied and advised there." Quaranir's smile was a little sad. "I… do have it within me to banish the Eye if necessary, but the effects would wipe half of the northern coastline and Solstheim off the map."

The Dragonborn shuddered. "Yeah… Let's not do that unless the world's in danger."

"Agreed." Quaranir looked over Labyrinthian grimly. "I came to warn you that once Winterhold is dealt with, you need to hurry to Whiterun. The Stormcloaks are planning something and the other Dragonborn is involved somehow."

Tolal's eyes narrowed. "That 'other Dragonborn' is my uncle," she said grimly.

"And he's allied himself with Ulfric Stormcloak."

Quaranir's knowledge of Nordic swearing increased exponentially with every word that came from Tolal's mouth. He wasn't sure about the physical possibility of a union involving Ulfric Stormcloak and a troll, especially when a dead horker and a broken oar was involved, but it sounded awfully uncomfortable. When she fell silent, he coughed awkwardly. "I'm… sorry for the bad news."

"It's more bloody hindering awkward news. Alduin's on the prowl and this jackass Irkand is playing politics!" Tolal's eyes glittered but interestingly enough didn't assume the draconic slit that Irkand had developed. Quaranir wasn't sure what to make of that.

"I understand your frustration." The Psijic monk felt his magicka drain and knew it was time to end the spell. "Forgive me, but I need to leave. I will meet you again near Dawnstar."

Tolal nodded, not wasting time with swearing, as she rose to her feet. Quaranir used the last of his energy to retreat to his hidden sanctum to prepare for the disaster that was Winterhold and the Eye of Magnus.

It never occurred to him to question just why he was interacting with the Dragonborn so much when the Psijic Order avoided direct intervention…


	17. The Edge of the World

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for multiple character deaths.

…

**The Edge of the World**

In the end it was Brelyna, the most adept of the apprentices, who was chosen to wield the Staff of Magnus. After being flung back on her arse for trying to use Unrelenting Force to break the whirling sphere of energy that had engulfed Winterhold almost to Whistling Mine, Tolal chose to let the experts handle it. Even Teyfunvahzah was helpless in the wake of a tiid-stru'un, time-storm, that centred on the powerful artefact.

For all her nervousness, the Dunmer was a true Telvanni mage and she sliced the barrier with little more with a swing of the staff and an imperious gesture. Quaranir, who'd managed to rejoin them at Dawnstar (they'd not stopped in the town), looked nearly as ill as Tey. "Ancano's definitely unmaking the world," he said grimly. "We must push on."

When they reached Whistling Mine, Tolal gasped, a sound echoed by the apprentices: adorning pikes outside the cave complex were the heads of Faralda, Nirya, Arniel Gane, Enthir and Nelacar, the rune for black magic carved into their foreheads. "They stayed to evacuate the town!" Onmund cried in disgust.

Tolal's fists clenched grimly. "Ulfric's going to be short a supporter," she promised softly. "But we must deal with the Eye."

Brelyna nodded and gestured again, opening a path through the energy for them to walk.

Tolal read out a scroll for Lightning Cloak as magical anomalies raced in before unsheathing her hand-axe and calling fire to her other hand. It was a hard slog down Winterhold's single street, every building crackling with the sheer force of magicka in the air, but they gained a large number of filled soul gems. She didn't want to think how they'd come to be.

Oddly enough, it was safer to walk the bridge to the College as the Eye's influence had stopped the winds. Tolal's breath was a cloud in the too-dead air and she felt ill at the thought of being cut off from Kyne's air.

Then they were attacked by the remnants of the faculty who hadn't made it out in time. Tolal wept as J'zargo eyed her with milky eyes and breathed "Thank you" while his body turned to ash. She hadn't spent long enough at this place – should have returned sooner. What else could she do though when Alduin hunted?

Miracle of miracles, Urag had survived, locked away in the Arcaneum until he obviously sensed the apprentices' return. "About time," the Orc growled as he conjured a Storm Atronach. Just within the Hall of the Elements was the Eye with Ancano, manic grin on his face, making it spin in an ever tightening gyre.

"The world will end soon," the Thalmor said conversationally as they tried to gain entry, the wrought-iron door sealed shut with pure magicka. "And not be regurgitated by Alduin."

"You're insane, Ancano," Quaranir said flatly. "You will drag Nirn into Oblivion, not return mortalkind to Aetherius."

"Psijic scum. Your order has always stood against the Thalmor. I haven't forgotten your support of Rynandor the Bold, that damned traitor who-"

The Psijic monk's green-gold eyes blazed with magicka as his lips pulled back in a furious snarl. "Rynandor was my grandfather!"

"So treason's in your blood-"

"The Thalmor are the traitors. Taking credit for ending the Oblivion Crisis in Alinor, destroying all that is good about the Altmer and making us hated throughout Tamriel. I am of the Psijic Order and it is given to me to know the fates of mortals. You blackcoats will fail and die, your names synonymous with treachery and lies." Quaranir's entire body was quaking with the magicka flowing through his veins. Tolal had to look away from the display of sparks that surrounded his tall lean frame.

She glanced at Oleg and Brelyna pointedly as Ancano's attention was now fully upon Quaranir. The Norc and Dunmer nodded; the latter pointed the Staff of Magnus at the sealed lock and shattered the magic keeping it sealed.

Having a spell backfire on you hurt like a bitch. Ancano screamed, high and shrill, as his spell was shattered through brute force. Then the door opened and Onmund was the first one in, unleashing the Grah Graat on the distracted mer.

The gift of Kyne struck true and the goldskin – no, blackcoat – lost more control over the Eye, which had begun to close up, as he wet himself with fear.

"Focus on the Eye!" Tolal snapped at Brelyna as the others fanned out. Tey, Esbern, Aela and Celende had been told to secure Winterhold; if they died here, Skyrim would need the Harbinger and the last Blades loremaster.

The Dunmer girl nodded and used the Staff to drain the magicka from the Eye. But Ancano covered quickly and used Telekinesis to rip the weapon from her hands.

"I will free us from flesh!" he screamed. "You will thank me later!"

"Fuck you," Tolal snarled. She didn't dare Shout in this chamber but she could fight the magical anomalies with her axe.

"As if a mer like myself would taint himself with an ill-bred mongrel like you," Ancano sneered. "The Norcs are even more of an abomination than the Bretons."

Famous last words. Tolal threw aside her cheap iron hand-axe and reached for a sturdier weapon: a solid staff of reddish-brown wood with a softly glowing tip that she carried on her back. She couldn't quite remember where she got it…

It didn't matter. Ancano laughed as she unlimbered the staff. "That's a Staff of Magelight," he smirked. "What are you going to do, illuminate me?"

"Something like that." Tolal cast Magelight right in front of the mer's big eyes, hoping he'd be blinded, and then charged at him.

Ancano was driven to the ground and so was she. But the mer had obviously preferred magic over melee because he was struggling to get to his feet as she rose, used to falling on her boat and getting back up again, and attacked him with the simple expediency of smashing the staff over his head.

It was sturdy enough that it stunned the mage; Onmund darted in, grabbing the Staff of Magnus, as sigils began to flare around Quaranir. They contained the Eye as Tolal methodically beat the blackcoat to death with the staff Savos Aren had given her. The man must be spinning in his grave.

As Ancano breathed his bloody last and the Eye closed up for the final time, the world slipped into that colourless place that Quaranir told her was the edge between Aetherius and Nirn. Ritemaster Nerien and three other Altmer, all in Psijic robes, appeared in a flash of white-violet light.

"Dragonborn," Nerien greeted cordially. "I see you managed to stop Ancano."

"I had a lot of help," she said, looking to Onmund, who was helping Brelyna to her feet, and Quaranir. Oleg had put a quarrel into Ancano to make sure before diving for his pack to take rubbings of the Eye's surface.

"So you did," the Ritemaster sighed. "Quaranir has broken the Oath of Solitude."

"If I hadn't, Ancano would have destroyed Nirn," the younger monk retorted, rubbing his forehead with a pained expression.

"I understand that, which is why we're not throwing you out of the Order entirely." Nerien's expression was grave. "However, this incident proves that the College of Winterhold… or what's left of it… needs a Psijic advisor. Since you seem to have developed a positive rapport with the mages here, that will be you for no less than a century."

"A century of exile from Artaeum, however much you pretty up the sentence," Quaranir pointed out. "But… I will accept it. We cannot remain isolated from the world, Ritemaster, and I'd like to share our magics with the College."

"Of course." Nerien looked to Tolal. "You were _meant_ to become Arch-Mage, Dragonborn, but it seemed Auri-El had a greater destiny for you. Sky Haven Temple in the Reach will give you answers on how to defeat Alduin… and it may be a suitable place to rebuild the College."

"Winterhold's too saturated with magicka to live in," Quaranir explained under his breath. "The Psijics are going to have to-"

"Are you saying that the Ysmir Collective, oldest library in Skyrim, cannot be saved?" Urag roared.

"Your library is impressively shielded. Atmoran work if I'm not mistaken." Nerien actually sounded impressed. "It's a pity that the Nords turned their back on the Clever Craft."

"It's still practiced," Tolal growled. "Can the books be removed?"

"Yes. If we can use enough magicka-"

"Use the Eye to power the spell to teleport the library and its contents to Sky Haven Temple?" one of the other Psijics suggested. "We need to drain it anyway, so we might as well get some use from it beforehand."

"That works," Nerien agreed before looking at Tolal. "Even the Psijics cannot see past your confrontation with Alduin but know this: it will be in Sovngarde."

"Of course. It's said the World-Eater eats the souls of the heroic dead," Urag growled, mollified by the promise of salvaging his library.

"There's people in Winterhold – the Harbinger, a loremaster, a Companion and a dragon – who need to come with us," Tolal said, feeling a chill at the thought of Dag and Adelheide being hunted by the World-Eater.

"A trivial concern," Nerien assured her. "Now prepare yourself."

The world turned violet-white and Tolal's stomach lurched. As she felt the earthbones shake beneath her feet, she heard Nerien's voice, "You will always be welcome on Artaeum, Dragonborn, should you ever find yourself in that direction."

…

"Well, I wasn't expecting that."

Esbern was the only one not bringing up their guts on the soft grey-green grass of the Reach as they were teleported to an open courtyard on a plateau which overlooked half of the mountainous Hold. Even Quaranir looked ill as he leaned on a stunned Tey, who'd slumped his horned head on the ground miserably and muttered something in Dovahzul.

Tolal wiped her mouth and rolled onto her back with a groan. "I wonder what happened to Winterhold?" she asked softly. "I hope everyone's alright."

"Oh, we took care of that," Celende assured her as she struggled to her feet. "Aela and I had a quick discussion and decided that Korir needed to die. He'd been acting out in grief over his wife dying but it's no excuse – the mages deserved a fair Holdthing to determine their fate. Sometimes, when all else fails, it's the Harbinger's job to enact judgment on the Jarls."

"Damn. He was an ass, but…" Tolal stared into the amber sky of dawn. "So, we need to set up some kind of trade… Shit, I guess the Forsworn will try to bother us."

"There is a camp of Forsworn below," Tey told her. "I will hunt for our first meal and then we can take what we need from below to stock this Brunikke Temple."

Esbern, who was a Reach Nord, sat down on a worn stone bench with a sigh. "Dragonborn, there are Blades secrets here. Alduin's Wall, a list of every dragon still extant-"

"Esbern, I'm sorry, but the Blades are dead," Tolal answered with infinite compassion in her rough voice. "If Quaranir's going to share Psijic secrets with the new College, then the least you can do is make sure the knowledge of the Blades won't be lost."

The loremaster bowed his head, tears seeping from his eyes. She was correct, of course, but it still hurt to know that an order dating back to the time of the Akaviri Dragonguard was going to end with him and Delphine.

The Dragonborn rose shakily to her feet, limping over to his side and sitting down to give him a hug. "I'm the last Dragonborn and your oath as a Blade ends with Alduin's demise. The Thalmor can't get you here, old man. Let it go."

Esbern broke down and wept into the Norc woman's shoulder. She didn't know the significance of what she was saying: an Aurelii, Lucius, had been the first Grand Master of the Blades beneath Talos and now the last of his line was declaring the order dead. But… she was right.

"Nothing lasts forever." That was Quaranir's voice, hoarse from working magic. "A new College will arise from the ashes of the Blades, Esbern, one that is a worthy successor to the Mages' Guild."

"This is all very nice and all, but can we get that Temple open?" Urag interrupted. "The books are on the grass."

The Orc librarian's terse practicality startled Esbern from his tears into slightly hysterical laughter. The others gathered themselves and got up to save the precious books of the Ysmir Collective. Esbern led the Dragonborn to the double-doors and watched her cut her hand to activate the blood-seal… Another tragically lost art.

"I know how they made that," Tey said cheerfully from behind them. "If the Bruniik wishes to be polite, I might even tell him."

_Bastard dragon,_ Esbern thought with sour wryness. Tey had obviously found one of his weak spots.

"Tey, you're gonna be a teacher here too," Tolal assured him, scratching the dragon's brow ridges.

The dragon was nearly cross-eyed as scales flaked off. "Geh, of course," he answered.

"I intend to reclaim the Clever Craft and Tey's ability to look back in time will be a useful one," she murmured to Esbern. "Once the Nords were capable of greater magics than little bone charms or the odd runed weapon. I will see it happen again – Ancano was just one Thalmor and there's thousands more of the blackcoats waiting to destroy the world."

"Indeed." Esbern sighed, wiping at his eyes. "I wish your grandfather were here. Arius would have _loved_ the idea of the College."

"Sounds like he's the only Aurelii kin – aside from Celende – I wish I'd known," Tolal said sadly. "Irkand sounds… unpleasant. And he needs to be helping us fight dragons, not running around causing trouble and helping Ulfric Stormcloak."

"He was Third Blade – the executioner of our order," Esbern told her grimly. "And he helped rescue Ulfric. I'm going to assume he knows of you and since we're focusing on the dragons, he probably feels he's got some leeway."

"Perhaps." The Dragonborn opened the doors. "I need to return to Whiterun in a day or so."

"I can decipher Alduin's Wall by then," Esbern promised.

"Good. Ulfric has attempted to drag me into the war once already and now he threatens Whiterun. I've no love of the Imperials but I'm a Thane of Whiterun. It's my duty to defend the place."

"Celende told me she intends to call a truce. That might buy you and Balgruuf some time."

"Good." Tolal looked over the darkened interior before using her staff to light up the place. "Because we're gonna need it."


	18. The Crimson Wash

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. This is creeping into duology territory so this is the last chapter! Trigger warning for violence against an old man, a massacre and blood drinking. Also, throwing the dogs a bone because they are going to massively screw things up here.

…

**The Crimson Wash**

It seemed the Nords knew how to survive the icy seas, giving the Redguards snowberry extract and a foul-tasting potion to help them get across to the Katariah underwater. After Elenwen's death, a richly satisfied Ulfric had made the time to join Irkand on his execution of the Emperor and reluctantly, the Dragonborn had agreed. He had insisted, however, that Ulfric _not_ bring another soul gem.

They climbed up the anchor ropes, ten men in all, and quickly executed the sailors on the deck. Some of them were Nords but the Stormcloaks had no mercy for those they deemed traitors. It was then a simple matter to enter the ship and overwhelm the Penitus Oculatus within. Compared to the Alik'r, they were thugs, and Ulfric's handpicked men were almost as skilled as Legionnaires. Two men – neither Alik'r, thank the winds – died on their side but over twenty of the Emperor's bodyguards perished. Ulfric toasted the dead Stormcloaks as heroes worth of Sovngarde because they died in battle. Irkand refrained from pointing out that they'd died on a covert mission to murder an old man. Nord hypocrisy was none of his business.

"Good loot here," Ralof noted as they tossed the last of the Penitus Oculatus overboard. Weighted by their own armour, they'd sink to the seafloor, and the fog which had sprung up would deafen the splashes.

"We'll split it in half," Sudrith agreed. The second had indicated them supporting Ralof if Ulfric had an unfortunate accident. Irkand was inclined to agree.

"Good." Ralof grinned and then turned for the door leading to the starboard side of the ship where the Emperor had his cabin. Irkand wondered absently if Titus would regret letting a couple Blades come on board during the Great War. He did wish Delphine was here; she'd appreciate the chance for vengeance.

The sound of voices told them that the Emperor of Tamriel (ha!) wasn't alone. Ulfric's lips pulled back in a snarl and Irkand's hand tightened around his dagger as they both realised that General Tullius was inside.

_Two birds, one stone,_ he thought in satisfaction. Legate Primus Rikke was competent but lacked the tactical flair that made a Legion General. If Ulfric was a skilled tactician, he could have Skyrim within a month once Tullius was dead.

The two older veterans exchanged a significant glance before Irkand kicked the door open. This was a moment he'd never expected but always longed for. Ulfric had agreed to let Irkand deal the killing blow to the Emperor.

The cabin, as appropriate, was richly appointed. Tullius turned towards the door and drew his gladius as Titus Mede II, clad in ornate robes too heavy for his frail frame, remained seating. The third person, a tall Altmer with chiselled features and orange eyes, simply regarded them calmly, fingers laced across the front of his black and gold robes.

Irkand's lips peeled back in something that couldn't be called a smile. "Titus Mede II. General Tullius. Ambassador Nurancar the Elder."

"Irkand Aurelius, former Third Blade, Third Sword of the Alik'r." Nurancar's voice was poisoned honey, haughty, melodic and sweet. "And Ulfric Stormcloak. We just finished discussing how you sold out the Imperial City because you couldn't handle a little pain."

Ulfric grinned savagely, too battle-drunk to care what the mer said. "I have your wife's soul in a black gem," he taunted. "And Stormcloaks killed your son in Riften."

Nurancar's expression flickered slightly with something that might be grief before it hardened. "Ancano has set things in motion that will see the end of this world," he answered. "So I will be reunited with them soon while you lesser souls return to the primordial soup from whence you came."

"Grah Graat!" Ulfric responded with the Battle-Cry, which literally meant 'Battle Debate' in Dovahzul and was apparently Kynareth's gift to the First Men. Irkand always thought she should have given the Nords some intelligence instead.

Ulfric's Battle-Cry was echoed by the three remaining Nords but Tullius and Nurancar stood firm while Titus Mede seemed paralysed by fear. Irkand knew he wouldn't be able to escape so he dipped into his robes and drew out needles poisoned with a paralytic agent and threw them in the direction of the trio.

Energy shimmered over Nurancar's skin as he evoked a protective Alteration spell, the needles bouncing off. Tullius wasn't so lucky, collapsing to the ground and being run through by Ralof in a heartbeat, and Titus simply sat there with a bleak expression on his face.

The Butcher of Bruma and the killer of the Aurelii responded with a precisely placed ice spike that might have wearied Irkand, maybe even paralysed him, if he'd still been where he was. But the former Blade had learned new tricks in Hammerfell, immediately dropping to the ground and feeling the ice spike pass over his head to hit someone behind him.

Then the Dragonborn rose like the Thalmor's nightmare made flesh, grinning as an intoxicating energy flowed through his veins. Was this how Nords felt when they were fighting?

Irkand grabbed a desk lamp and threw it at Nurancar, who batted the copper projectile away but wound up covered in lamp oil. His orange eyes widened just before Irkand's Fireball followed, hitting the splash of lamp oil with wicked accuracy.

Between the Altmer weakness to magical attacks and the oil accelerating the flame, Nurancar didn't last very long but what little time he had left, he spent screaming as Irkand imagined the Aurelii civilians had. Of course, he set the rich Khajiit carpet alight, but there was still plenty of time to escape as Irkand then threw Fireballs at the windows to smash them.

"For the betrayal of the Blades and the Ra Gada, Titus Mede II, I sentence you to death," Irkand said grimly, raising his spirit katana.

"You've given the Thalmor what they want," Titus countered wearily. "An Empire thrown into chaos that they can easily invade."

"High King Sura will stop them when he's on the Ruby Throne," Irkand promised gently, feeling a bit of pity for the Colovian. They were both descended from Akaviri and in another life could have been friends, even allies. But he'd betrayed his liegemen and Empire by trying to preserve the Imperial Province with a cowardly treaty instead of calling on the Ra Gada and Nords to finish the Dominion once and for all.

"So the Redguards think they've got what it takes to rule the world?" Titus Mede asked dryly as flames began to lick at his desk. "Good luck to them, I suppose. Take my Imperial Seal and give it to Sura. He'll need it to access the Imperial Archives."

The Emperor removed the heavy gold and ruby ring before tossing it at Irkand, who caught it readily. "Clever," he told the old man with a hint of admiration. "By naming him heir, you deny Sura a victory."

Titus Mede barked with laughter as Ralof cast Frostbite on the flames to kill them. The man _was_ truly intelligent. It was almost a pity he wasn't running the show instead of Ulfric.

"I had contingency plans for Sura or whoever won the Civil War to sit the Ruby Throne," Titus Mede admitted calmly. "Tell the Nords they can fucking well have Bruma. It's a ghost town."

"Because you let the Thalmor fill it with ghosts," Irkand retorted. He then ran Titus Mede through and turned away in disgust.

Only to find the Nords reverently picking up the open-eyed corpse of Ulfric Stormcloak, the gaping hole in his chest indication of where the ice spike had landed. "May the winds carry you to Sovngarde," Irkand whispered, feeling a mixture of relief and grief that the man would no longer be a threat to their plans in Skyrim.

"Thank you for avenging him," Ralof said bitterly, his voice thick with heartbreak. "He lived long enough to see Titus Mede perish."

Irkand cast Feather on the warlord's corpse. "Strap him to someone's back. We'll need to swim to shore on the northern shore once the other ships realise something has gone wrong."

Ralof accepted the burden as the two other Nords and four Ra Gada stripped the bedroom of anything valuable with practiced efficiency. These men were battle-brothers now.

They dove into the sea as alarum began to sound from the nearest ship, a trim little Breton number, and swam away with heavy hearts. They'd been victorious but unless the Stormcloaks chose a new leader, the Imperial response would crush the rebellion. It seemed that the Alik'r might have to take an even more direct hand than originally planned, for they needed a free Skyrim to achieve their own plans.

…

The taste of blood, copper-tang and flat salt-sweet, filled his mouth.

Opening his eyes, he saw a saturnine Nord with the drawn features of a vampire looking down upon him with a smile. "I am impressed you survived the turning," he observed proudly. "Welcome to the true dark of night and the crimson wash of blood."

The newly made vampire didn't bother asking the aristocrat's hand, knowing it would imply weakness, but forced himself to stand. His skin had become pale olive with grey undertones and his fangs were aching as they'd grown. But otherwise, he was good – better than good. All the aches and pains had vanished, his senses improved, and he could feel the springy muscles of his limbs responding with newfound strength and vigour.

There was a dull-eyed, slack-jawed woman in rags nearby, the blood in her veins flowing sweet and scarlet beneath dirty skin. He was thirsty, so very thirsty, but decided to show the Nords what true manners were by easing her fears, gently picking her up and nipping her jugular so that the blood would seep out. He sipped it like the finest wine, a copper-tang that sang on his tongue like a bottle of good Alto red, and slowly felt her body go limp in his arms.

"Imperials!" the Nord muttered exasperatedly.

"Thank you," the vampire said, turning around to face his benefactor. "Tell me though, why save me from the Katariah?"

The Nord vampire smiled. It wasn't a pretty sight. "I am Lord Harkon of Clan Volkihar! I saw your impending demise and thought to deny the wretched son of Akatosh a victory for his execution of a Vampire Lord from Alinor."

"Nurancar was a vampire? Now that doesn't surprise me." The reports from Cloud Ruler and Pale Pass indicated that most of the women had been drained of blood, Ralinde Swan-Neck in particular.

"I have little love for a goldskin I haven't turned but I cannot allow a Dragonborn to slay one of my kind unchallenged," Harkon continued as he turned for the entrance to the room. "Now come, childe, and see your new home and court."

The Colovian vampire was _not_ impressed with the state of his new home and court. The rank stench of blood and rotting meat hung over everything as the Vampire Lords devoured the dead Penitus Oculatus like jackals on carrion. The black and purple armour was stylish, but it seemed it was the best thing Clan Volkihar had produced.

He smiled behind Harkon's broad back. Soon it _would_ be his home and court. And when that time came, he'd need to make some necessary changes for a smooth transition of power and better presentation amongst his courtiers.

…

And beneath the crimson wash of Masser the waves beat against the curve of a new harbour carved by magicka in the wake of Winterhold's… removal… from this world. The nightlarks sang over the spreading juniper trees of an ancient Akaviri temple while in a mighty hill-fortress of wood and stone, a Jarl brooded beneath a dragon's skull. A goat bleated as a young Chief, not too proud, milked her because she was an ornery beast who never gave milk during the day.

Two Dragonborn looked towards the sea from which they came and felt the ages turn within the quiet dark beneath the crimson wash of Masser's light. The Fifth Age had begun.


End file.
